The Roaring of Lions, the Howling of Wolves
by Laine Montgomery
Summary: A collection of short stories and vignettes featuring Jaime Lannister and Sansa Stark.
1. Quoth The Raven

**Title: **Quoth the Raven

**Rating: **M

**Summary: **The Queen in the North receives a letter from King's Landing, and she calls upon her Lord Commander for advice.

* * *

"I had a raven from King's Landing today."

Jaime knows, of course- he screens all of her correspondence, delegating whatever he can and passing along only what is important. She trusts him this much, has this much faith in his judgment- he often thinks to ask her why, but never does.

The chamber is cold, as all chambers in Winterfell are cold. In addition to his breeches and tunic, Jaime wears several furs over his shoulders, and he pulls his armchair as close to the dim fire as he can. But Sansa stands in nothing but a wispy nightshift, her legs and arms bare.

She approaches his seat, placing her hand on the back and looking down at him. "Have you anything to say about it?" she inquires as she props her hip up on the arm of the chair.

She plays these games sometimes, dancing around her point and speaking in a code of teasing questions and clever witticisms. He recognizes it as learned behavior, knows not to fault her for it- but he sometimes wishes to take her shoulders in hand and shake her until the facade crumbles and she speaks as Sansa Stark once again.

Jaime rubs his jaw to relieve a bit of the tightness before he answers her. "As your Lord Commander, I think it a rather fine idea. Aegon Targaryen is King in the South, you are Queen in the North- there is a certain symmetry to it." She shifts on the arm of his chair until her shoulder presses against his, but he chooses to ignore that for now. "It would certainly please the High Queen- and your brother, too. I'm sure he would never suggest it unless he had your very best interests at heart."

_I'm playing the game too, now_, he realizes as her hand slips into his hair, tugging gently until he turns his head to face her. She has already unlaced her nightdress, and her position provides easy access to her soft, white breasts.

"Is that what you really think?" she sighs, her hands pulling his hair tighter as his lips and tongue work over her nipples.

"It is a good match, a strategic match," he murmurs into her skin. She whimpers when he rolls her right nipple between his teeth, and again when he wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her onto his lap.

One little pale hand lowers to rub him through his breeches while the other pulls his face upward for a searing, desperate kiss. Jaime rocks his hips into her palm, whispers to her as she kisses along his jaw and nibbles on his earlobe- "You are both young and beautiful and powerful, and your children would be dazzling."

Sansa bites the side of his neck, hard enough to make him cry out. Her fingers tear at the laces of his breeches, and she makes quick work of removing her own smallclothes. He inhales sharply at the feel of her wetness against him, wants to grip her hips and pull her down onto him- but she hovers there, and he waits.

She lifts her hands and places them on his shoulders, fixing him with those often-impenetrable blue eyes- she brushes her fingertips lightly along the sides of his neck as she speaks hoarsely-

"I should marry him, then. That's what you think."

She is not playing anymore, that much is clear. There's a darkness, a terrible need in her expression- he knows what she wants him to say, knows what he wants to say-

The pad of her thumb trails over his lower lip, and he kisses it delicately.

"Sansa..." he begins, only to be interrupted by a shake of auburn hair and a soft smile.

"You wouldn't marry me, even if I asked," she murmurs, her voice stripped of artifice- just Sansa, only Sansa.

There's no accusation to the statement- it is simple fact, something that Jaime knows and Sansa knows and that they've always known. He has to remind himself of that, has to tell himself that the sadness in her eyes is just a trick of the light.

Sansa leans in to kiss him, sliding her slick cunt over his hardness. "Thank you for the advice- you know how I value it," she whispers into his mouth.

She takes him into her, and they speak no more.


	2. Let Me Be No Nearer

**Title: **Let Me Be No Nearer

**Rating: **M

**Summary: **Sansa still likes to dream sometimes, and so does Jaime. Future-fic.

* * *

When they first began this, when she first pulled him atop the furs of her bed and twined her legs around him, all but begging him to stay, she had her largest looking glass positioned on the nearest wall. She liked it there- perverse though it was (and she knew it was), she liked to watch their reflections twisting and writhing together, all red and white and gold and _perfect_, as beautiful as the erotic etchings from Old Valyria that she'd found in Petyr's apartments at the Vale, the depictions of gods and goddesses and heroes, lush women and virile men bathed in an ecstatic glow.

She was careful, surreptitious- she'd straddle him, roll her hips the way he liked, wait for him to close his eyes, and then she'd turn her head and look in the mirror. _Beautiful, beautiful- _and it pleased her, that after all of the ugliness, the death and blood and agony and gore, she could still recognize and appreciate beauty.

He finally caught her, of course. She expected him to tease her for her wantonness- but she found herself surprised by the depth of his distaste.

(But when she really thinks about it, it does not surprise her at all. She knows how little he cares for mirrors.)

He never asks her to move the looking glass, but even when she stops staring at their reflections (she reminds herself again and again, _don't look don't look), _it is all he can focus on, and the hardening of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes, the eventual dwindling of his erection all pull at her, weigh on her until she requests that the glass be moved to another chamber.

She feels embarrassed, deeply ashamed of her vanity, and she even tries to explain herself, stumbling over her phrasing and flushing warm and red until she fears she may suffer from heat stroke.

(He just smiles and kisses her forehead and tells her that he understands, that she is very, very young.)

Perhaps he is trying to teach her something, when he flips her onto the mattress and leans over her back, drawing his tongue over the thick pink ridges that mar the white skin. He finds each cut, each scar, each bruise, and she chokes back a sob for each gentle brush of his lips.

A handless arm, strangely smooth, grazes the side of her neck, stroking the bits of mousy-brown still staining the auburn of her hair. She turns her head and presses a forceful, almost indignant kiss to the space where his hand once was- _I know that we're not perfect, I know that we're not gods and heroes, I just like to imagine sometimes..._

Her body twists beneath him until they lie stomach to stomach, chest to chest, face to face. She stares hard into his eyes, past the green irises and into the blackness of the dilated pupils. And the reflection she sees there- a lion apart from the pride, a wolf torn from the pack, a disgraced knight and a former fugitive, a one-time bastard and the father of three bastards by his own sister, a man of seven-and-thirty lying naked with a girl of seventeen, a pair just biding time as "honored guests" at the Dragon Queen's court while she decides what to do with them...

He rarely allows her to wallow in fantasy for long- he's abrupt and candid and bracingly direct, and she welcomes it, knows that she needs it. He leans down and kisses her hard, taking care to rub the roughness of his gold-and-silver beard into her chin and cheeks. And it isn't because she's younger and he's older and he has to rid her of her foolish whims- she knows him better than that. When he digs his fingers into her thighs, when he sucks at her neck with enough force to leave marks, when he thrusts into her too deep and too fast, she can hear him echoing her thoughts, just as sure as if he'd spoken aloud- _this is here and now and you and me and we must move forward lest we slide back. _

For he dreams as she does, and his are far more damning. She pretends to ignore the name he sometimes whispers in her ear, never acknowledges the tiny flash of disappointment in his eyes when he wakes in the morning and finds her in his arms. She knows what he sees when he catches a glimpse of his own face in her looking glass, and she knows how the reminder of his ideal, his beautiful, his _perfect _aches in his bones.

And so she cants her hips into his, beginning the familiar call and response- "Jaime," "Sansa"- back and forth in an erratic rhythm, quieter and quicker and closer until they pant the names into each other's mouths and she feels the warmth of his release.

They come together in pieces, and they lie in pieces afterward. But there is a strange solace in proximity, and as Sansa gathers Jaime to her and sweeps his shards into a pile with her own, she wonders whether it is really so terrible to be broken.


	3. Sanguine

**Title: **Sanguine

**Rating: **M

**Summary: ** _We've all bled for this throne...it belongs to us all now. _Sansa, Jaime, and the Iron Throne. Future-fic.

* * *

The idea creeps into her head early in the morning, when she kneels before Daenerys Stormborn and pledges her fealty yet again- the little Dragon Queen, so tiny and delicate on that big, hulking monstrosity of a throne. She hates the sight of it, all sharp edges and unforgiving metal...and _yet._

Jaime laughs at the suggestion- surely she's jesting, she can't really be serious, his position in this new regime is far more precarious than hers, does she want to see his head on a spike?

(She doesn't answer that last question. His eyes flash in tandem with hers, and she knows she has him then.)

They've fucked on her throne in Winterfell before, the big chair of ancient wood and stone where her father once sat, her grandfather, all of the lords of the North spanning generation after generation. They tried it once with Jaime sitting on the throne and Sansa straddling his lap, but that felt wrong, criminally wrong- a Lannister had no place on this chair. And so from then on, Jaime would stand and Sansa would sit, coiling her legs around him as he pushed into her, his flesh-and-blood hand braced against the back of the throne, his golden hand digging hard into the skin of her hip.

They resume this position now, and she pushes her white skirts up over her thighs. He drops to one knee before her, his eyes gleaming with a fierce boldness that tempers the apprehension- she tips her head back and lets him slip his hand between her legs and bury his face in the softness of her bosom. But this isn't why they're here, and time may be short- she tugs at his breeches with enough force to split the laces, and he huffs an obscenity into her skin. But he knows well enough what she wants.

Jaime stands, Sansa spreads her legs wider, and he thrusts into her. The metal of the throne is cold and bracing against her skin, but it isn't enough- "Harder," she whispers. He grips the back of the throne with one hand, pushes the golden one into her side, and she's pressed against the edges..._almost there_, she thinks as she tilts her body ever so slightly-

And finally, the blades cut into her skin- first a tiny ribbon of red over her white shoulder, but soon there are slashes everywhere. Jaime cants his hips upward, and she feels several of the gnarled scars on her back split open, the hot blood rushing down over her back. Her dress, winter white, Stark white, now streaked with Lannister scarlet...

"Sansa..." Jaime gasps, and his grip begins to loosen. But she reaches out and clenches both hands on his hips, pulling him into her as deeply as she can. Her teeth grind together, and she hisses- "Don't. Stop."

She feels something warm dripping on her brow- Jaime's been holding the back of the throne too tightly, and blood leaks from his left palm. She glances up- her own blood has spattered into his hair, and it's all red and gold and green- her head tilts to the side, and she sees the steps below the throne, where she used to bleed and bleed-

_We've all bled for this throne...it belongs to us all now. _

Jaime releases the throne and dips his hand down, his blood combining with the slickness between her legs. Dizzy with arousal, weakened by blood loss, she thrusts against him once, twice, and comes with a high, delirious sigh. She listens to her own shallow breathing- she hears Jaime moan and assumes that he must have reached his own climax, but there's so much warm blood trickling down her legs that she can't tell whether he's released his seed.

Sansa closes her eyes. She feels Jaime's arms encircling her, pulling her into him, and she lets him scoop her up and wrap her in his cloak. They're both sticky and panting and weak- she presses her lips to his temple and tastes the metallic tang of iron- whether it's her blood or his, she does not know.

As they steal away from the throne room, Sansa peers over Jaime's shoulder to look at the Iron Throne. Their blood has already begun to dry, and it blends seamlessly into the myriad stains on the metal; it's as though they were never there at all. She buries her face in Jaime's neck and begins to laugh, her lips parted just enough to catch the hot, salty tears that run over her cheeks.


	4. The Birch Grove

**Title: **The Birch Grove

**Rating: **M

**Summary: **It's the moon. It's pulling at them, and there's nothing to do for it. Future-fic.

* * *

They make camp in a grove of birch trees; pale, slender things with a criss-cross of barren branches. Sansa's slim white arms blend in with the tree trunks as she wends her way through the thicket, circling each birch, swinging and swaying in a mesmerizing rhythm. As Jaime watches her from the doorway of the tent, he marvels at how impervious she seems to the cold- she wears nothing but a diaphanous shift, her feet completely bare. Her hair is no longer that unfortunate mousy brown, but the rich, deep red that she inherited from her mother. The moonlight sifts through the branches and illuminates her pale limbs, catches in her wide blue eyes, reflects off of her small, sharp teeth.

There is a full moon over Westeros tonight.

He takes a step into the grove, and the crunch of leaves under his feet catches her attention. She tilts her head to look at him, one arm and leg still wrapped around the birches. For a moment, her eyes retain that weird, dreamlike glaze that they'd held when she escaped from the Vale, but she quickly focuses- she's getting better all the time. She smiles at him, a bright, blazing smile that shows all of her teeth- a lupine smile through and through. "Ser Jaime," she whispers, just a light, wispy sound.

And Gods, she is heartbreakingly, devastatingly beautiful. He'd expected to find a pretty child, but had come away with a glorious woman, a vision of red and white. His eyes trail over the curve of her hip, the swell of her breast, the long, lean muscles of her legs; there's a burning in his blood, whether from the moon or from his long celibacy or from the sight of this ethereal creature weaving between the trees, coming closer and closer-

"Aren't you cold?" he manages to hiss, and she laughs as she shakes her head, fiery hair bright against the whiteness all around. She flattens her back against a tree and the moonlight spills over her front- he can see the pinkness of her nipples beneath her sheer shift. For a moment, he wishes nothing more than to fall to his knees and take first one nipple and then the other between his teeth, nibbling and rolling until they flush red- his cock begins to twitch, and he knows that he must retreat to the tent...

But now she stands before him, just a hairsbreadth away, pushing him back into another tree as her arms wind around his waist. "But you're cold, aren't you?" she asks, pressing her cheek into his chest. His left hand rests on the small of her back, and he pulls her into him before he can stop to think it through.

She's still talking, even as her fingers clench in the fabric of his tunic- "You haven't the blood of the North in you." And then she tilts her face up, that exquisite face, bathed in silver light, all gleaming eyes and sharp cheekbones and pointed incisors- before he knows it, he has his hand tangled in her thick red hair, and his lips are on hers, his tongue in her mouth, his teeth biting at her lip again and again and again until her blood trickles into his mouth-_ I have the blood of the North in me now, haven't I?_

He turns them until her back is against the tree; her shift catches on the bark, and the neckline falls over one shoulder. He sucks and nibbles his way over the ivory expanse of skin, and she whimpers and writhes. When he laves his tongue over a pulse point, he feels her blood churning and racing- _it's the moon, it's pulling at us, there's nothing to do for it._

And he is on his knees now, the coolness of the ground seeping in through his breeches, his arms wrapped around her waist as his mouth moves over her breasts and stomach, feeling the warmth of her skin through the feather-light shift. He uses his left hand to tug at his own laces and slowly rub himself- he lifts the hem of her skirt with his golden hand and kisses her through her smallclothes. He sinks his teeth into the soft skin of her thigh, and she cries out, a wolf-like sound if ever there was one, her nails digging into his scalp.

"Please," she whimpers, pulling on his hair until he brings his head out from under her dress and fixes his green eyes on her blue ones. "Please, Jaime...I want..."

And Gods help him, but he wants, too. She's light enough that he can lift her with only his left arm, bracing her back against the tree trunk. Her legs wrap easily around him, and then he's thrusting into her, losing himself in her warm wetness, in the feel of her lips on his neck, her teeth worrying at the skin beneath his ear.

The moonlight is everywhere, painting everything with its spectral glow. Dry, dying leaves fall from the branches and catch in their hair, and he can see the steam of their breath in the frigid air. Right before he comes, Jaime looks up at the sky and sees a bright star just past the tree that he has Sansa pressed against- they are facing northward.

When they are through, he thinks to guide her back into the warmth of the tent, but she only smiles and pulls him down to the ground. She curls up in his lap, and they sit together, their shallow breaths joining with the raucous howling of the wind through the trees, a sound to rival the hungriest of wolf-packs.


	5. Hiccups

**Title: **Hiccups

**Rating: **M

**Summary: **He's made her cry. Again. Future-fic.

* * *

He's made her cry again. The third time since they rode from the Vale two days ago- his shoulder still aches from the pummeling he'd received from the wench after reducing the little lady to tears yesterday evening. But she's off on patrol now, leaving him to deal with the sniffling girl all on his own.

He can't even rightly recall what he said to upset her; something off-handed and derisive about the North or Winterfell or her poor, dying, damnable family line, no doubt. Cruel thoughtlessness comes to him as easily as breathing now, and vow or no vow, he really cannot be bothered to curb his tongue to spare Lady Sansa's delicacy.

And so he sits and watches her blue eyes grow limpid, watches her lower lip tremble and her cheeks flush pink. She's holding fast so far, but just one breath, two- and here are the tears, small and crystalline, flowing down the high slopes of her cheeks.

Jaime rolls his eyes and quirks a single eyebrow. "Gods, girl. And here I hoped you might be made of sterner stuff."

Her face darkens into a distressing shade of vermilion. "You...you are no gentleman, ser."

"Truer words were never spoken, my lady," he quips. But he has trouble keeping a little grin off of his face- she's turning redder and redder as she tries to keep from sobbing. A bit of clear mucus trickles from her nose, combining with the stickiness of the drying tears- she's really quite a sight, and he wonders why she doesn't even trouble to wipe her face with the sleeve of her gown. Finally, he pulls a handkerchief from the pocket of his breeches and extends it to her.

"Take it."

The girl only shakes her head, auburn curls flying this way and that. "I'm...I'm not crying," she sputters, and he laughs aloud.

"Aren't you? Then I suppose you must be taken with some hideous affliction that causes the face to leak. If that's the case, we'll just leave you off at the side of the road and let nature have at you." She still makes no move to take the handkerchief, and he waves it just in front of her nose. "Come on. Dry yourself off."

But she just narrows her eyes at him, even as she sniffs and sighs. Her nose and throat are filling up, and she starts to cough-_ oh no, I didn't go searching the bloody Seven Kingdoms for you just to have you choke to death on your own snot. _Jaime feels an incendiary twinge as his patience, scarcely existent even under the best of circumstances, frays and frays. He whips the handkerchief at her once more, this time hitting her under the chin. Her jaw clenches, her hands ball into fists, she sucks in labored breath after labored breath.

And then a squeaking little sound: a hiccup.

He does not know why, but it's enough to snap the thread.

His right arm sweeps around her shoulders, pulling her roughly into him as he presses the handkerchief to her nose. She struggles and squirms, but she's no match for him in strength- he hears his own voice in a low, rasping growl: "Blow. Your. Nose."

And she does, with such violence that he catches a glimpse of blood on the white of his handkerchief. He continues to hold it to her face, scrubbing the soft material over her nose until she reaches up to pry at his fingers. "I...I can't breathe..." she cries out in muffled tones, the hiccups interrupting almost every syllable.

Jaime drops his hand from her face but keeps his arm tight around her. Sansa glowers at him, all stubborn, childish indignation, red-faced and panting, her hair mussed, her eyes shining...

And he is suddenly acutely aware of the soft press of her breasts against his side- with the exception of Brienne, he hasn't been so close to a woman since before he left King's Landing. Nothing but unpleasant, restless nights gripping his cock with his off-hand, listening to Peck and Pia fucking in the corner, trying and failing to keep from thinking of Cersei, Cersei and Lancel and Kettleblack and Moon Boy...

He feels a stiffening in his breeches- it takes next to nothing these days, the mere sight of a decently attractive woman in a vaguely-clinging dress, and he goes hard as stone. Sansa's still staring and sniffing and hiccuping- if for no other reason than to silence those bloody hiccups, Jaime pulls her closer and presses his mouth to hers.

She squeals and bats at his shoulders, but he only kisses her harder. When he finally lets her break away for air, he listens...and he laughs.

"You ought to be thanking me- you can breathe without squeaking now."

Her plush red lips part, and he expects a diatribe about his vile manners and complete lack of propriety, expects to laugh in her face when she's through-

But instead, she twists her fingers in his hair and pulls him to her. She draws his lower lip into her mouth and sucks, shifting her weight until her hips are flush against his. He drops his left arm to grip her arse and rock her into his hardness; she bites down on his lip, and he moans, his golden hand catching in her red, red hair, knocking against her skull.

In spite of the undeniable pleasure her body brings to him- he reaches up to take her breast in his hand, and Gods, she's soft and supple and perfect- there's a jarring surety to her movements, a clear practice- he thinks of how he found her in the Vale, of the strange game she'd been playing with Petyr Baelish; she is so obviously used to teasing, used to coquetry, and he feels a burst of anger working in tandem with lust to heat his blood.

He flips her on her back, flattening her beneath him, all but grinding his erection between her legs. "Don't play with me," he snarls.

Because there is nothing amusing about this- he realizes it more with each passing moment. If he were to fuck some whore or servant, that would be nothing but revenge, revenge for Cersei- _LancelKettleblackMoonBoy_... But Sansa is something else entirely. Of course, chivalry demands that he fall to his knees and beg pardon for his forwardness, that he never lay a hand on her again and that he guard against anyone else who would so trespass.

But he spits on chivalry now, pisses on the courtly idea of knighthood. He has offered himself to this girl, offered her his sword and his presence and his sharp tongue and quick temper, and what he offers her now is a binding- he cannot take this lightly, he never has and never will. _ I'm giving myself to her, and she damned well better not refuse..._

She does not refuse.

He thrusts into her, deeper each time and hard, hard enough to hurt. It's obvious that she is no maiden; she's too slick, too eager, and her hips move up to meet him with a precise timing that can only come from experience. He knows not whether to be relieved or upset by the revelation, but his thoughts fall away when she buries her little wolf-claws into the skin of his shoulderblade and wraps one leg around his lower back. "More," she whispers, and he swallows the word in a brutal kiss, teeth nipping and scraping at her soft, pretty lips.

_As my lady wishes_, he thinks with more bitterness than he'd have expected. The thrusts come faster and faster, and he winces from the sharp collision of her hipbones against his. A brief glance at her face; she's crying again, the tears mingling with sweat on her glowing cheeks. But she only holds tighter to him, pushing up as he pushes down, her breathy gasps now coming on voice, little shrieks and cries that only serve to inflame him further.

Jaime starts to kiss away the dampness on her face, but it's too gentle, and she turns her head away with a huff of displeasure. And so he moves down to her throat, sucking on the white skin until it blushes violet, his incisors making a constellation of dents on the smooth surface. He bites down too hard, and a bit of blood spurts into his mouth; dark, dark red, as dark as her hair in the candlelight.

"Ser Jaime..." she sighs, and he reaches up to grab her face, forcing his left thumb into her mouth.

"Just Jaime." For there is nothing knightly here; he nearly laughs at the memory of the illusions he'd held, just a few days prior, of being a legend in the White Book, Goldenhand the Just. He looks up and sees the lesson reflected in Sansa's clear blue eyes, the lesson that it's taken him five-and-thirty years to learn, the lesson forced upon this girl at fifteen- _words are wind, and dreams even less than that. _

And yet he finds himself able to make her a promise of sorts, as he trembles over her and releases his seed, letting her taste her own blood on his lips. "My lady," he breathes into her mouth, and she knots her fingers in his hair to pull him away.

"Sansa," she replies, eyes flashing, face red with tear stains and the burns from his beard, neck mottled and breasts covered in splotches. He's no longer hard, but he stays inside her for as long as he can, gaze sweeping over her figure. The girl lying beneath him is no symbol, no ideal, no "last chance for honor," but just a flesh-and-blood woman, warm and breathing and tangible and real.

Brienne will pitch a fit when she returns, but Jaime can't find it in himself to care. He lies atop Sansa, twisting enough to keep from crushing her chest, and listens as she tries to catch her breath. She turns her face into the pillow, and he cannot tell whether she's started to cry again (_is this the fifth time I've made her cry, or the sixth?)- _but then there's a high-pitched peep: the hiccups are back.

He thinks to instruct her to hold her breath, even considers slipping his left hand down between her legs to provide a suitable distraction- but in the end, Jaime just remains draped over her, feeling the erratic fluttering of her abdomen, watching the bizarre contractions of her throat, marveling over how the simple act of breathing can become so flawed and labored and uncomfortable and imperfect.

There's something about it that Jaime finds strangely fitting, and he turns his head to place a kiss on her brow, smiling a crooked smile into her skin.


	6. Blood Will Have Blood

**Title: **Blood Will Have Blood

**Rating: **M

**Summary: **Lions like to play with their food- but so do wolves. Alternate universe.

* * *

They'll never have his tears.

Jaime will not allow them that, but he'll give them his screams and curses and wailings of rage and despair. His throat stings and burns, he coughs up bits of blood, but he cares nothing- _they have their girl back, but they still won't release me..._

Some maester had come with a relaxing potion, and it had required three of Robb Stark's men to pin his limbs to the ground and force his mouth open to receive the drink. His body is still now, arms and legs almost too heavy to move, but his mind races as feverishly as ever- _they have their girl, they must let me go back to my father, back to Cersei._

The darkness in this corner of the camp is near-impenetrable, but a tiny leaking of moonlight reveals a woman's figure at the door of his cage. He bares his teeth and snarls as viciously as Stark's direwolf ever did. "Come to gloat, Lady Stark? Or have you changed your mind about my proposal?"

But it is not Catelyn Stark who slips through the door and kneels before him, dirt and leaves smearing into her furs. It is not Catelyn Stark who grips his hair with one hand and his throat with the other, chest heaving up and down with shallow breaths. And it is not Catelyn Stark who drops the furs from her shoulders, naked skin glowing pearlescent in the dim light of the moon.

Sansa is white and red, blood on snow, and he thanks the Gods that his hands are unfettered, that he might dig them into her soft flesh and tear her to pieces, might close them around her neck and choke the life from her, might hold one over her nose and mouth until her breaths fail.

_She's made it so simple, walked right into the lion's den. I'll show Robb Stark what it means to keep me in a cage; he'll have his sweet sister's corpse, bruised and naked and cold._

And it is, so very cold- she's trembling, gooseflesh prickling up her arms, her little pink nipples hardening. He feels himself begin to stiffen as well- from anticipation, he tells himself, from the promise of sacrificing this smooth, lissome creature with his bare hands...

But Jaime Lannister is a lion through and through. And lions like to play with their food.

He reaches for her, pulling until she rests her weight fully on his lap. Her eyes blaze and flare, ice blue- he thinks for a moment of the direwolf's eyes, but pushes the image from his mind. _I'm the predator, and she the prey. _

Her budding breasts fill his hands, and as she arches into his touch, he brushes his mouth over her white neck. _I could sink my teeth into her throat and tear it open_, he thinks, uttering a little moan into her skin as he kisses and sucks.

He skims one hand down over her stomach and between her thighs to where she's warm and wet- she gasps when he slips a finger into her. _Still a maid_. He smiles, a harsh and savage smile, one incisor piercing the soft skin at the join of Sansa's neck and collarbone._ I'll fuck her first, fuck her until she bleeds. And in the morning, Robb Stark will find his dead sister with blood and come on her thighs, used and disgraced..._

After he loosens his laces (one breaks off in his hand- his clothing is all but rotted now), he pushes into her- slick and tight and Gods, it's been so long..._she's not Cersei, but this isn't about love or pleasure, it's about revenge..._

She tosses her head back and whimpers, and for a moment he thinks it a shame, a pity to kill something so beautiful. When she leans back into him, her red hair falling over her shoulders and swatting him in the face, she hisses his name through gritted teeth- "Lannister."

His hand clenches in her russet hair, and he captures her mouth, biting at her lips, tongue forcing its way past her teeth. _I could bite her tongue off until blood spills from her mouth, blood everywhere on her white skin..._

He thrusts harder, she screams into his mouth but he won't release her, one of her hands reaches behind him to grip a bar of his cage, and the other-

A sharp sting just below his chin, the cold of metal- had he the reflexes of a normal man, he'd never have stopped it in time. But he is Ser Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer, the finest swordsman of his generation, and even his current physical weakness can't do away with that. He pushes Sansa back and wraps a hand around her wrist, squeezing and squeezing until the bones grind together, squeezing until her little silver dagger falls to the ground.

He looks at her. She looks at him. Blazing, fiery, furious eyes, lion's eyes and wolf's eyes-

_She meant to kill me, too._ Now he has more reason than ever, he'll be killing her out of self-defense, it's all completely warranted...

But as he stares at her (still inside her, still_ hard _inside her), he feels a peculiar sort of respect for her boldness, for her queer bravery.

_Who are you, Sansa Stark? _

He wants to strike his hand over her beautiful face until it bruises, wants to twist her little wrist until it snaps. But he only grips her hip and pushes up into her, harder and harder and faster and faster, fucking her until she scratches at his shoulders and bites her lip until it splits open. He kisses her to taste the metallic blood, wetting his lips with it and pressing patterns to the white of her cheeks and neck and collarbone.

His cock surges, and he can feel her trying to lift herself off of him before he comes, but he digs his fingertips into her hipbones and holds her fast, pumping into her until he releases his seed in her cunt.

She snarls at him then, teeth gleaming as bright and sharp as the little knife that lies on the ground beside her. Jaime wonders whether she'll reach for it again, prepares himself to wrest it from her grasp-

But she shifts, extending her foot far enough to kick the blade through the bars of his cell. Before she stands, she draws a pale finger over his neck, the blood from the thin cut pooling beneath her fingernail.

She moves away from him to wrap herself in her furs once more, and he observes the blood stains on her creamy thighs, combining with his seed to trickle down her legs.

They've both drawn blood tonight- and now, a detente.

Lion's eyes of green meet wolf's eyes of blue, and they nod in tandem.


	7. Menagerie

**Title: **Menagerie

**Rating: **M

**Summary: **The Dragon Queen may lock the wolf and lion in a cage, but she can never silence the howls and roars. Future-fic.

* * *

A stream of murky water sluices through the crevices of the stone, landing on the hard floor in a steady drip, drip, drip. As she lies on the dirty straw pallet, Sansa wonders how the water manages to avoid turning to ice- the cold in the cell is brutal, abusive and uncompromising, slicing through her skin and cleaving into her bones.

She starts to shake, more seizure than shiver. Teeth chatter and muscles cramp, but then she feels the warmth of arms around her, the solidness of a broad chest behind her, and she pushes against it, nestles into it, legs twining with legs and breaths nearly shared, steam rising in the frigid air.

Sansa and Jaime have grown used to sharing small bedrolls in drafty tents- they care nothing for modesty anymore. She wraps her legs around him, her groin flush against his, but what does it matter, they are so much warmer this way. He presses his lips to the crown of her head, and she takes the opportunity to bury her face in the crook of his neck, pulling the thin woolen blanket tight around them both.

Their hearts flutter together, too fast to be healthy, hot blood striving to pump through frozen veins.

A shift, and Jaime winces. Sansa moves her legs away from the vicious bruising on the backs of his knees, placed there by the formidable Dothraki guards who occupy the Queen's throne room. Cold fingers reach up to stroke the angles of his face as she remembers him standing before the Queen that afternoon, battle-worn and thin and weary, but proud, still so proud. When Daenerys had demanded a confession of his crimes, he'd obliged readily, but refused to offer an apology for killing her mad father.

And when the lithe little monarch stood from her chair and declared, "I am your Queen, and you will do as I command," Jaime had looked at her, green eyes flashing, and snarled: "Anyone who must say 'I am the Queen' is no true Queen at all."

(The words sounded a bit peculiar, echoing of paraphrase, but the power and defiance were there in abundance.)

She'd screamed herself hoarse when the Dothraki beat him nearly unconscious, and she'd kicked and wailed and struggled until the guards agreed to let her share Jaime's cell. She'd held him then as she holds him now- her one ally in the dragon's lair, another vestige of a great House near extinction, her fierce, brave, foolish lion.

One of her hands slides under his filthy tunic; he flinches at the cold as she draws her palm over his hard stomach. Another activity they'd picked up during their travels, the surest way to keep warm. Her fingertips dance over the waistband of his breeches, teasing at the laces.

He hisses when her hand closes around his cock; the icy metal of the golden hand catches in her hair, and he kisses her, chapped lips on chapped lips, tongues eagerly slipping into mouths to find the heat within.

She holds him to her with desperation, almost reluctant to release long enough to pull her smallclothes out of the way. He breaks their kiss and licks up and down her neck- she fists his matted golden hair and clings and grips and sighs.

His cock is so warm inside her, and she rocks her hips over it, her chest against his, their foreheads pressed together, their mouths hungry and demanding-

Jaime reaches his left hand down to brush her clit, and she very nearly squeals, but she bites down on Jaime's lip just in time- the guards are never far down here, after all...

The golden hand nudges her chin, and she meets his eyes; his beautiful, wild, ferocious eyes.

"Let them hear," he rasps, kissing her hard before releasing his own moan of pleasure.

Sansa's cheeks flush, but as she looks around her at the filthy, frigid, miserable little cell, the drip of dirty water, conditions completely unsuited for a pair of nobles_...savage, all of it._

_And if it's savagery they want, then they will have it._

She screams, so loudly that even Jaime appears startled. But she catches a glint in his eyes, and she trembles with delight when he matches her cries with a feral growl.

They hear heavy footsteps thumping down the stairs, but Daenerys Stormborn's caged lion and wolf continue to roar and howl until the sounds ricochet off of the stone, filling the air, marking the dragon's dungeon for their own.


	8. Brief and Shining Moments

**Title: **Brief and Shining Moments

**Rating: **M

**Summary: **They both believed in songs once. Future-fic.

* * *

Jaime is not a reticent man by nature; Sansa's seen evidence to the contrary in the way he banters with Brienne and exchanges bawdy tales with Pod and Hyle Hunt. And yet, when his time comes to guard her tent, he'll sit in sullen silence, his one good hand toying with the fastenings of his scabbard, green eyes downcast.

She feels lonelier with him in the room than when she actually is by herself. His dour presence creates a void, and she's spent too much time alone already...

Her time in the Vale honed her natural skill for conversation; in spite of Randa's boisterous manners, many of her kinsmen were the quiet sort, and Alayne learned quickly how to ask the correct questions and get them talking.

She tries the trick on Jaime Lannister- just easy queries here and there, nothing jarring or contentious. And before she knows it, he's moved his chair near her cot and begun to recount his early days in the Kingsguard, his adventures with Ser Gerold and Ser Barristan. But most of all, he speaks of the Sword of the Morning. Most of all, he speaks of Arthur Dayne.

(Light returns to his eyes when he pronounces the three syllables- "Ser Arthur, Ser Arthur"- and Sansa finds that she likes him this way, excited and animated and alive. He looks so much younger when he smiles- she steels her mind against his resemblance to Joffrey, for those thoughts, those memories have no use here.)

The Daynes of Starfall- a memory springs unbidden into Sansa's mind, a question she'd asked her father years ago. She'd overheard something curious in the kitchens, and she approached Ned Stark in his solar later that day, child's eyes wide and inquisitive. "Father, who is Ashara Dayne?" Her father had fixed her with a serious stare and asked her where she heard that name. He bade her never speak of it again, appeasing her curiosity with only: "A girl from the South. A girl who died."

She nearly surprises herself, asking Jaime to tell her of Ashara Dayne. But she's bold on the wine (a poor vintage that tastes of the leather of Jaime's flagon)- he twists his lips and looks away from her.

"Ashara, the fallen star. It's a pretty story, isn't it? Heartbreak, tragedy, suicide- a dream come true for the minstrels."

Resentment clings to every word, and Sansa silently chastises herself. _Petyr would call this entire conversation inappropriate- 'Poor drinking talk, Alayne'-_

Jaime draws his shoulders inward. He keeps speaking, but she must strain to hear. "They lit up the court, Arthur and Ashara. She'd always enter the Great Hall on his arm, they'd always dance together at the feasts. When he'd win a tourney, he never thought of crowning any other girl the Queen of Love and Beauty. Only Ashara, always. And they were so alike, but for the color of their hair-" He pauses to swallow, and Sansa finds herself transfixed by the laborious movement of his throat.

When he continues, it is nearly in a whisper. "I thought that perhaps...that they might be like us. It excited me, the thought that Arthur might understand...but when I tried to ask him what was between him and his sister, he looked at me as if I'd sprouted another head. Because of course, Arthur Dayne would never break his vows, especially not with his own blood- no man had honor like his."

Nausea seeps into her stomach at the reminder of the secret that had cost her father his life, but she holds it down.

Emerald eyes flicker over to her, dark and piercing. "They were a pretty pair, a pretty story. Do you still care for pretty stories, my lady?"

A plethora of scripted answers rise in her throat, but she only shrugs.

"You'd have liked King's Landing at that time, then. It dazzled me, to be sure- the Kingsguard was quite something back then, not the pathetic group of glorified sellswords that it is today. And Prince Rhaegar was everything I thought a king should be, brave and beautiful and kind-" He gestures with his free hand, and the flagon of wine spills onto Sansa's skirt. But Jaime scarcely even notices.

"Summer, my lady. Not in truth, but as I remember it- all balmy days and clear skies. Just a brief and shining moment...but it couldn't stay. Aerys Targaryen saw to that." She watches his shoulders move up and down, breath quickening.

"And then when Robert came and took the city and took my sister to wife, everyone called it the start of a golden age, the end of the Targaryen legacy. But there was too much blood already, too much viciousness and murder...summer was over for all of us, and winter came in earnest for Arthur." His jaw grows tight, and he looks away from her again. "Aye, and for Ashara, too."

The candlelight illuminates the side of his face, and she is startled to see a trickling of moisture trailing down his cheek and disappearing into his beard. Abruptly, Jaime stands from the chair and bows his head low, obscuring his face from her view. "I'll stand guard outside the tent, my lady," he murmurs, unable to conceal the thickness in his throat.

Ordinarily, Sansa resents tears from men- _tears are a woman's weapon, aren't they? And we have so few as it is... _But from Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer, her unlikely friend and, surprisingly enough, a fellow dreamer...she reaches out and closes her hand around his wrist.

"Jaime." He blinks at her- she'd never called him aught but "Ser" before. His eyes are red and still moist, and he tries to turn away, but she pulls with great insistence, pulls until he sits back down in his chair. And then she takes his face between her palms, stroking her thumbs over the dampened beard. "I'm..." She realizes that, for all of her training, for all of her manufactured poise, she hasn't the slightest idea what to say in this situation. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" he nearly spits. "Perhaps it's better to live in dark times- dreams destroy as much as anything else. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that."

Her nails dig into the skin of his face, just a little, and he winces. But then his lips curve into a strange smile as he lifts his left hand and carefully, delicately, traces the slope of her cheek.

"Do you want to hear something absurd?" he asks, and when she nods, he places more pressure in the finger, bringing it down to rest on her lower lip.

"I thought that you might be the last song left."

Suddenly, Sansa feels the air leaving her body, a storm of rage and sadness and indignation swirling at her core. _Well, I'm sorry, Ser Kingslayer. I'm sorry that I'm not the pristine maiden, waiting in a white tower to be saved. I'm sorry you couldn't ride up on a white stallion with your two hands to save me. I'm sorry that I'm ruined, spoiled, impure-_

Her little hands clutch at his hair, and she's sure that the facade has slipped; she can see her blazing eyes reflected in Jaime's.

She can see her reflection so clearly because the mist of tears has not yet abated. He keeps his thumb on her lips, and they hold still for a moment, until Sansa whispers-

"I gave my last song away years ago. These are dark times, as you say. We can't hold with songs anymore."

There is a waver in her voice- true as they are, it costs her to speak these words aloud. A shine in Jaime's eyes tells her that he knows it- _Gods, he was as big a fool as I once. Dreamers..._

They see each other for what they are- reconstructions, works in progress, pretty facades broken and stripped down and striving to become something new. When she kisses him with urgent lips and a pleading tongue, he accepts, breathing his shattered fancies into hers- _we'll let them go together, we'll learn to love how dead we are. _

He's far from the most skilled lover she's had- he lacks both Petyr's patience and Harry's practice. Petyr's touches never hurt; he was far too deliberate and precise. Harry would grab too tight and thrust too hard on occasion, but she'd always receive a litany of apologies afterward.

When Jaime hits the side of her head with the golden hand, hard enough to raise a welt, he offers no spoken apology. But he brings his lips to the spot at once, kissing and gentling until she sighs and forgets the pain. He is not sleek and slender like Petyr, nor is he towering and hulking like Harry. Just narrow hips and broad shoulders, the muscled arms and legs of a soldier. He is beautiful still, and Sansa finds a perverse pleasure when she thinks of his stories of riding beside Arthur Dayne, both tall and proud and golden-headed, eyes of emerald and amethyst transfixing every girl at court- glorious and unattainable. She herself has had more lovers than Jaime Lannister- she tries to keep the shame of that thought away- and although she hates to think of the other woman she shares him with, she likes the idea of his newness, of him as the pristine one.

She runs her tongue over the line of his jaw and down his neck, tasting the salt of sweat and tears. When he whispers her name into her ear before biting down on the lobe, she whimpers, legs tight around his waist.

"Jaime, please..." She sounds wanton, but they aren't playing at maidens and knights, not anymore. Her hand dips down to stroke his cock- not like Petyr's, not like Harry's- and he pants as he mouths the skin of her throat.

He slides into her easily- she's slick with want, and she's pleased to hear him groan as he begins to thrust. They move together in a clumsy, frantic tangle of limbs, mouths everywhere and foreheads colliding. _Petyr would be horrified_- he'd schooled her so carefully in the art of lovemaking, and she'd played the part to perfection with Harry, every movement precise nearly to the point of choreography.

Nothing with Jaime could be described as precise- he slips out of her a few times, they elbow each other, he bites down on her lip hard enough to split it in two. Her nails claw at his back, leaving pinpricks of blood on his tunic- even in the dim light, she can see purple splotches forming on her white bosom. But they're so tight together, joined in shared desperation, and she screams her release as she never did with Petyr or Harry, so loud that she's sure Brienne and Hyle must hear it, even half-a-mile away.

They lie twisted together, damp and glistening, chests heaving and heartbeats quick. He still idly strokes her breast, and she feels a twinge of excitement- he'll be hard again soon enough, and then they'll go, fucking the reality into each other as many times as they can do it.

But as she waits, Sansa finds herself thinking of songs. Not the pretty story-songs of the South, but the old music of the North. She'd hated it as a child, sharing her mother's distaste for the harsh, immediate rhythms. And the melodies- jarring, discordant, assailing the ears with notes too high and too low. There was nothing beautiful in it at all- and yet the power could not be denied. These were songs to move mountains, songs to bring armies to their knees, songs of conquest and possession, of war and darkness, of the lust of battle and the dream of victory.

As Sansa nestles closer to her fellow warrior, she smiles at the thought that, even in the dark days to come, there may still be a place for songs.


	9. Blushes

**Title:** Blushes

**Rating: **M

**Summary: **Cersei may be cross with him, but Jaime manages to find other diversions at the High Table. Alternate universe, older!Sansa.

* * *

When Cersei becomes cross, a little twitch forms just under her left eye. It is small, subtle, nothing that would be noticed by casual observers- but Jaime's observations of her have never, ever been casual. Outwardly, she seems in high spirits tonight, tossing her golden curls and laughing brightly at some dull tale from a mousy little lord, who clearly cannot believe his good fortune.

She scarcely bothers to look at her brother at all, but when she does, her emerald eyes narrow just a fraction. He knows why she's annoyed; he'd gotten carried away during their tryst the night before, crying out with enough volume to arouse the concern of Cersei's lady-in-waiting. He'd had to scramble to hide under the bed before the woman entered, and Cersei had whipped up some flimsy excuse about a nightmare. But when the intruder left and Jaime tried to continue, Cersei pushed him away and ordered him out, claiming that his lack of control had quite spoiled her desire.

He knows that she'll forgive him eventually- she always does- but she's been less than receptive to today's overtures thus far. She makes a point of flirting outrageously with the men on either side of her, and Jaime feels a twinge in his cock as she leans forward to whisper something to one of them, her cleavage perfectly contoured by the candlelight.

He reaches to his right to take his wine goblet in hand, granting a perfunctory glance to the girl who shares his plate tonight. Ned Stark's eldest daughter tears at the raisin-studded bread with delicate fingers, placing each bite in her mouth and keeping her lips firmly shut as she chews. When she notices Jaime's eyes on her, a pink blush stains her cheeks, and she looks back at him through lowered lashes.

She's an uncannily pretty thing, long-limbed and lithe, with flaming hair carefully braided into coils at the crown of her head. He likes the look of redheads, the contrast of bright hair against white skin, and Sansa Stark's rosy lips and wide blue eyes set the picture off to perfection.

He gives her a rakish smile, teeth blinding and golden hair falling carelessly over his brow. When he passes the wine glass to her, he takes care to brush his fingers over hers; she's quivering, and he grins even wider.

Cersei's glare becomes sharper, but when he only lifts his brows at her, she places her hand on the upper arm of the lord at her right and giggles like an insipid girl. _Well, if that's what we're playing..._

Jaime leans into Sansa, lips treacherously close to the perfect shell of her ear. "Perhaps you've had your fill of the wine, my lady. You're rather flushed."

The pink in her cheeks shifts to fuchsia. "Oh! I...I didn't realize..."

She nudges the goblet back in his direction, but he stills her hand. A glance over her head to Ned Stark sitting several seats down, fully engrossed in conversation with the King. At Sansa's other side, Tommen's head nods forward toward his chest; he'll be asleep in a matter of moments. Only Cersei watches them, and as this is for her benefit, anyway...

He closes the tiny space between them until his mouth brushes her ear in earnest. He purrs: "No need to be embarrassed. It's quite becoming."

Her sweet rosebud lips twitch in a sheepish smile, and Gods, the redness in her face- he'd seen her that red earlier in the day, when Cersei dispatched him to locate the Crown Prince. A casual jaunt through the grounds revealed Joffrey and his intended hiding beneath the low branches of a willow. Joffrey had a wine flagon in one hand, but the other roamed over Sansa's budding shape, even as she darted her eyes about, back pressed to the tree trunk. Jaime watched his nephew- that's always how he thinks of Joffrey- kiss the girl with an overly-eager mouth, obviously trying to plunge his tongue past her lips, even as her tiny hands braced against his shoulders in a weak attempt to keep him at bay. And that face, that red, red face...

He'd found it vaguely disturbing, and he had just begun to consider interrupting when the Hound appeared to usher Joffrey off to the Great Hall. The prince shouted at his sworn shield, berating him for his rudeness, but Sansa seemed thoroughly relieved.

Yes, it was somewhat unpleasant to watch Joff's clumsy hands pawing at this pretty girl, but it was harmless in the end. And honestly, so much of what Joff does galls Jaime-he really cannot not take the time to be properly disgusted by all of it.

Besides, his clandestine view of the encounter may prove a perfect opportunity. Emerald eyes glitter with mischief, and he slides his chair closer to hers, his muscled thigh pressed against her slim one.

"Becoming, indeed. But not quite so bright as the blush you gave Joff in the woods."

She stiffens. He's close enough to her that he can feel the shifting of her skirts as she reaches down to ball them in her hands.

Her whisper- "Please, ser...don't tell my father."

Jaime nearly laughs at that; _aye, it would be amusing, to watch that honorable icicle fume. _But as he observes the desperation in Sansa's blue eyes, feels the warmth of her thigh against his, watches Cersei twitch and glower across the table- _this is more amusing by far._

"I wouldn't dream of it, sweet lady." He coats his voice in honey, and he can see her responding- when he chooses, he can play the part of the chivalrous knight as well as anyone. But of course, that calls for nothing more than pretty words and chaste touches, and he could certainly stand to have more fun than that.

He reaches across the table for the wine carafe. As he refills the goblet, he murmurs: "You seemed rather frightened. Has no one ever tried to kiss you or touch you before?"

"Ser!" she breathes, an indignant huff. But when he lifts the goblet to her lips, she accepts, mouth stained with Dornish red.

He has his answer in her lowered eyes and uncomfortable giggle. "It's a surprise, my lady. Of course, you appear to be a paragon of virtue...but none of those Northern boys coaxed even a little kiss from those pretty lips?"

She bites down on one such lip, and Jaime feels a sudden rush of predatory _want, _intensified by the venom in Cersei's beautiful eyes. Were the table less wide, he is sure that he'd have bruises on his ankles by now, but as it is, his sweet sister cannot touch him, will not bring his indiscretions to the table's attention.

His next words itch at his lips, and he wonders whether he'll manage to horrify Lady Sansa enough to cause a row. Logic tells him that this would be a most unwise course of action, but the danger thrills him, just as all danger thrills him.

He places his index finger on the silken skirt bunched up against his thigh, moving slowly until he makes contact with her leg. She jolts, hands gripping the edge of the table, but his face remains perfectly still.

"Perhaps it's for the best. Boys with sticky hands and fumbling touches...that isn't what you want. You're waiting for a man, a prince..." He shifts his hand to grip her thigh, fingertips barely hovering over the valley between her legs.

"..or perhaps a knight."

He slips his hand down and cups her through her dress; she's hot against his palm, and he grins when her little wolf's claws dig into the skin of his wrist.

"You musn't-" A flick of his fingers, and her words die away. Just a heavy exhale and cheeks glowing vermilion.

He lifts the wine glass in his left hand and takes a casual sip as he strokes her. Jaime's green eyes meet their reflection across the table, and he offers his sister a brilliant smile.

"Sansa." Cersei's voice is quiet but commanding, and the Stark girl snaps her chin up, obviously trying to even out her breathing. "Are you quite well, sweetling? You're red as a pomegranate."

Ned Stark leans over to look at his daughter, and Jaime's cock begins to harden in earnest at the wideness of Sansa's eyes, the panic writ across her lovely face.

But he does not stop. He can't help but be impressed by the stillness of her tone when she replies:

"It's nothing, Your Grace. These Dornish spices are just a bit too hot for me." She gestures to the slices of hen on their plate, and the table laughs merrily before returning to their conversations.

Cersei purses her lips, but says nothing more.

"Good girl," he whispers in her ear. "Now pull up your skirts."

"I _can't_," she asserts, but she releases a little peep when he places more pressure on his fingers.

"You want to. You're wet as autumn under there, I can tell."

She still hesitates. His smile becomes nearly savage, revealing all of his sharp, white teeth. "Perhaps I'll just lift this tablecloth and let everyone see...let them all see how you let me touch you."

"My father will kill you," she snarls back. He pushes his fingers into her through the layers of fabric, and her eyes flutter shut.

"I'm more than capable of besting your father, my lady." Her hips move forward very slightly, bringing him harder against her. He clenches his teeth at the throbbing between his own legs. "Pull them up."

She obeys with shaking hands, hiking the skirt up over her knees. The deft fingers of his right hand dip into her smallclothes, tracing her clit before sliding up and into her.

His estimation proves correct- she's slick and warm and...

"Gods, you've a tight little cunt." She keeps her face stubbornly turned down, but the tip of her little pink tongue wets her lower lip. Although he quite enjoys taking her like this before the entire court, he nearly wishes that they were hidden in an alcove somewhere, that he might suck a bright mark onto her white neck and cup her breast in his free hand.

In a sudden flash of inspiration, Jaime lets his knife fall to the ground. When he leans beneath the table to retrieve it, he takes the opportunity to bring his face between her thighs and kiss her through her smallclothes. To his surprise, she reaches down to pull at his hair, nails scraping his scalp, and he gives a little grunt of pleasure.

(While he's under the table, Jaime reaches out and tickles Cersei's ankle, moving away in just enough time to avoid a sharp kick to the face.)

He sits up straight and tears at the bread still left on the plate, popping a piece in his mouth, letting his fingers linger on his mouth long enough to taste a hint of Sansa's quim. She stirs beside him, wound and restless...he grins at the thought of making her ask.

"Why so tense, Lady Sansa?" he queries in a light, flippant tone.

Her lips press tightly together, eventually curving down into a frown, but he just waits.

And then finally, a barely-discernible whisper-

"Please."

His hand vanishes under the table, and he thrusts into her with two fingers, his thumb massaging her clit. He feels her inner muscles contracting, her blush as brilliant as ever-

When she climaxes, she takes a long sip from the goblet, pretending to cough from the sour liquid.

Jaime's erection strains at his breeches, and he momentarily considers placing her dainty hand on him- but no, that wouldn't be nearly as tidy. Instead, he leans back in his chair and retrieves the wine glass from Sansa. When he locks eyes with his sister, he raises the goblet and bows his head, a dazzling grin of victory etched upon his perfect face.

There is rage in her eyes, to be sure, but he recognizes the simmering desire beneath. A glance over at Sansa reveals breaths still quickened, face still flushed, and a smile of bemusement and embarrassment and satisfaction on plump lips.

When he goes to Cersei's chambers later that night, Jaime finds her door barred to him. But he does not fret- she'll come around, as she always does. And if the want in her expression earlier is any indication, there will be at _least_ two beautiful women in the Red Keep dreaming of Jaime Lannister tonight.

The idea pleases him, and he whistles brightly as he strolls back to the White Sword Tower.


	10. Weaving

**Title: **Weaving

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **Sansa only wants to help him, to take care of him. But Jaime's not used to being nurtured, and he isn't adjusting very well. Future-fic.

* * *

"What is this?"

His eyes narrow, and the words come out in a snarl rather more vicious than he intended. Sansa balks a bit at the harshness, but her face remains impassive as ever.

She glances up, shrugs, and turns back to her weaving loom. "I had it made for you. Your clothes are a fright."

Jaime laughs, a raspy, grating sound. "I'm sorry to offend, _my lady_. But as I expected to be on a ship headed East by now, I haven't given much thought to the state of my wardrobe." He takes a step into her sewing chamber, shoulders tight, unreasonable anger rolling off of him in waves. "I've also little coin to speak of these days- simple clothing will do well enough for a pauper like myself."

When she says nothing, he steps even closer and extends his left hand, waving the garment in question before her face. "Is this sable? And the leather; it's top-quality." He runs a finger over the clasps and winces. "Gold, Sansa? Real gold?"

"What of it?" she asks quietly, fingers still calmly working over the loom.

"How much did you pay for this?"

"That's an impertinent question," she replies. "It's terrible manners to ask the cost of a gift."

"Then might I ask what I've done to warrant a gift?"

Her hands still at last, and she sighs. "You're to be my Lord Commander, ser. You'll stand at my side as one of my most trusted councillors. I can't have you looking like a lowborn sellsword."

His laughter echoes louder this time, and Sansa briefly closes her eyes, a frown of distaste pulling at her mouth. _ Lord Commander_- he'd surely been drunk when he agreed to that. Given the choice, he'd be far away by now- _but she asked, and I stayed..._

The more he thinks of his new position here in Winterfell, the more ridiculous it seems- he's to be "Lord Commander" of an army of men who piss on his disgraced name, who will never accept orders from him...and, in fact, Sansa has said very little of his military duties. What she wants is a figure to stand beside her, to support her blindly in exchange for a fancy title and creature comforts...

And in a sudden fit of pique, Jaime all but shouts, "Then I'm here for decoration, am I, Lady Sansa? To stand at attention, looking the part of the valiant knight in these costly clothes that my patroness paid for?"

"Oh, you think yourself so decorative as all that?" she snaps back, her face blanching white and her fingers taut with nerves.

"Shall we see, my lady? Shall we see if I look pretty enough to please you?"

His left hand tears at his threadbare clothing, pulling the tunic up over his head and fumbling with the ornate clasps of the beautiful new overcoat. Sansa just watches, blue eyes wide and so painfully full...

"Jaime. Why are you so angry?" she asks, and the soft sweetness of her voice only incenses him further.

He hardly knows where to begin- shall he rage about his disinheritance, or perhaps about the obliteration of his entire family line (with the notable exception of Tyrion, who still refuses to speak to him), or maybe about the incredible contempt he faces each day from the Northmen, Sansa's own kinfolk chief among them?

The cold of the chamber assails his bare skin, and he feels his teeth beginning to chatter as he hisses, "You don't need me here. No one does, and yet you won't let me leave-"

"I won't let you?" He nearly jumps in astonishment; Sansa so rarely raises her voice, but she's shouting in earnest now. "I asked you to stay. I want you to stay. You helped me and took care of me and all I wanted to do was help you...and take care of you..." The color returns to her face, vibrant and furious. "But go, if that's what you want. Go! There's no one stopping you. Just run away, I dare say it would be easier..." Her barks taper off into huffing, seething murmurs. "Go, if you want to..."

The late-afternoon sunlight beams through the window and illuminates her face. The red splotches stand out violently against the white, her lips tremble, and her eyes...she turns her face down, but it's a moment too late; Jaime notices the mist of tears gathering in the crystalline blue.

At once, the rage seeps out of him, leaving him tired and deflated. A large part of him wishes to leave her in solitude, but he approaches her instead, steps quiet and hesitant.

"Sansa."

"I'm busy right now, Jaime," she whispers, twitching fingers returning to the loom.

Jaime kneels at her side and places his hand on her knee. She halts her weaving, but waits several moments before turning her head to look at him.

He must be quite a sight: red-faced, half-naked, shivering with cold. And yet she looks at him with her heart in her eyes, brushing her cool fingertips over his face, shoulders and chest.

"I've been beastly to you." The acknowledgement is as much as he can give- even after everything, Jaime Lannister has little talent for apology.

"Yes," she replies. Her hand moves to cup his cheek, and he presses his face into her palm, eyes fluttering shut.

"Would it be so bad to let me take care of you, Jaime?" Her thumb brushes his lips, and he gently kisses the tip before opening his eyes and looking up at her.

"I have little experience with being cared for, my lady. And I may be too old to learn."

She lowers her face until her brow rests against the crown of his head, soft hands still stroking his chilled flesh.

"But it won't only go one way. I want you to take care of me, too. Will you do that?"

An urgent heat floods his body, and he reaches for her, his mouth hot and hungry on hers. She coils her arms around his neck and sighs, her little tongue swiping at his lips, the wool of her dress scratchy against his bare chest. She slides from her stool and guides him back until his skin makes contact with the icy stone floor. And then it's Sansa's body, soft and willing and warm, her thick red hair surrounding him, her tiny hands caressing and teasing.

"What are you weaving?" he whispers to her as she kisses just below his chin, the same spot again and again.

"It.." She lifts her head to look him in the eye, and she blushes again. "It's a blanket for you to put under the furs of your bed. It will help keep the warmth in...I know you aren't used to cold like this, and I thought-"

His lips on hers interrupt her words, and she smiles into his mouth.


	11. For the North

**Title: **For the North

**Rating: **M

**Summary: **The Queen in the North shall take whatever lovers she wishes, shall bear as much fruit as she can, and no man shall claim her children, for the North is the only father they need.

Jaime interrupts Sansa as she attempts a wildling fertility ritual. Future-fic.

* * *

Although her Lord and Lady Commanders frequently protest the decision, the Queen in the North refuses to allow guards at her bedroom door. There's no need, she insists; the walls of Winterfell are more secure than they've ever been, the alliance with the wildlings is proceeding beautifully, and she cannot think of a single person within her household who thirsts for her blood.

(And even if she could, she keeps a dagger under her pillow, and she's learned well enough how to use it.)

No, she has no use for such protection...but when her door swings open suddenly, revealing her in a most peculiar position, Sansa begins to reconsider her stance on the matter.

"A knock might have been a courteous gesture," she huffs in response to the surprised snort of laughter, followed by a swift closing of the door. And indeed, she makes quite the spectacle: naked as her name day (save a pair of rose-and-elderberry garlands slung over her neck and hips), bent backwards over her bed until her head nearly touches the ground, a slick combination of oils slathered over her belly and between her legs.

From her inverted position, she sees only a pair of boots stepping toward her and the glint of a silver breastplate. But she would recognize his presence even if she were blind, and he speaks soon enough, anyway. He never can stay quiet for long.

"What in the seven hells are you doing?"

"It's...a fertility ritual..." He's thrown off her breathing pattern completely, and she tries to resume the deep, measured breaths that she's been told are crucial to the process. "...one of the wildling women...told me about it..."

The blood rushes to her head, and she closes her eyes at the sudden press of tension at her temples. She's already dizzy from the pungent scent of the oils- _deep breaths, deep breaths._

Jaime's sardonic drawl sounds very far away- garbled even, as though he's speaking with his head underwater. "Interesting, that an unmarried queen should be so determined to bear a child."

Her exhale is so sudden and forceful that it propels her farther down until the crown of her head almost collides with the flagstones. They've had this conversation before, and it never ceases to exasperate her. The rules are different here in her fierce, savage Northern kingdom; the wildlings care nothing for the exchanging of cloaks or words mumbled in a sept (or even in a godswood). The Queen in the North shall take whatever lovers she wishes, shall bear as much fruit as she can, and no man shall claim her children, for the North is the only father they need.

But any attempts on her part to explain this to Jaime have only ended in sniping jokes and tangible discomfort, so she only says, "It's another world up here."

"Aye, that it is."

She keeps her eyes closed, but she can hear him moving around the front of the bed, can feel the mattress sinking beneath his weight when he positions himself by her feet.

His fingers barely skim over her ankles, and she shivers. Jaime seems to interpret that as an invitation to move forward- she feels the chill of his breastplate against her calves as he purrs into the skin of her inner thigh:

"I don't mean to question wildling wisdom-" he licks into the crease between her hip and her groin, and she bites down hard on her lip- "but as far as I can tell-" he moves the garland out of the way to place a kiss just above her mound- "there's only one way to get a child in your belly."

She cries out when his tongue enters her, palms flat on the floor as she tries to push herself up. There's no hope of resuming her breathing rhythm, not with his beard scratching at her thighs, his lips closing over her pleasure spot- her arms tremble with the exertion of keeping her head away from the floor, and she can barely summon the vocal strength to whisper-

"Jaime...not yet...the ritual..."

"Fuck the ritual." His mouth causes a pleasant buzz against her sex as he speaks, and she can feel her climax approaching-

Her elbows buckle, and she whimpers, "I'm going to fall, Jaime..."

At once, the press of skin and metal on either side of her hips, and he hoists her up, shifting his body back and keeping his face buried in her cunt. She twists the flower garlands around her hands and moans her release, the stinging in her arm muscles only adding to the pleasure.

Jaime lifts his golden head and runs his tongue over his lips, brows furrowed in a quizzical expression. "What is this?"

"Oil of juniper...and witch hazel...and willow herb..." She fights to catch her breath, and he laughs.

"You've got more potions on you than an embalmed corpse." He leans over to kiss up and down her belly, his lips shining when he pulls away. "The taste isn't entirely objectionable, though. I think I could grow used to it."

He reaches for the laces of his breeches, but she stills his hand, nearly giggling at the frustrated impatience in his green eyes. "Breastplate off first," she instructs, "along with any other metal you're wearing. It's unlucky...supposed to drain energy from the womb..."

She frowns at his wide grin of amusement, but is relieved to see him reach for the buckles of the breastplate. Sansa helps him along, stripping layer after layer until he's as naked as she, except-

"The golden hand, too," she says in a cautious whisper. He freezes, hesitation in every muscle, and she rises up on her knees, stroking her fingers over his face and bestowing kiss after gentle kiss on his mouth.

"Please?"

He finally complies, and she immediately cups the handless wrist in her palm, the surprising smoothness pleasant to the touch. Jaime deepens the kiss as he lowers her down; her head barely hangs off of the side of the bed, brilliant red hair tumbling down, long enough to sweep the floor.

He fills her, and she holds fast to the stump, her legs tight around him, the flowers tangling in their limbs and in her hair. The oils bring an ease to his thrusts, and as she pushes her hips up into him, she uses her other hand to fist his fair hair and drag his mouth down to her throat.

Her voice box vibrates beneath his lips when she pants, "Give me a child, Lord Commander. Give me a child..."

"My queen," he whispers, nipping the thin flesh below her chin.

"Your queen...needs an heir.." He thrusts harder and faster, and her nails dig into the handless arm, hard enough to cause pain if the nerves were not dead. "Give me an heir."

He begins to say something- a sibilant syllable escapes his lips- but then he stops. She thinks she knows why- it hurts, it will always hurt, but she can't let it linger, not when she has a duty to her people, to-

"The North," she murmurs, too quietly for him to hear. The friction of his lower stomach against her clit nearly brings her to her peak, but she holds it back, waiting until she feels the heat of his seed within her, coating her womb, filling her with hope, the promise of a future.

He guides her up until her head rests against the pillows, and they lie together, sweat-dampened and spent.

"So the Queen in the North may take any man she likes into her bed, husband or no?" The fingers of his left hand trace soft circles over her breast, and she can feel him smiling against the skin below her ear when she nods.

"And the children she bears..."

"...belong only to her. Well, to her and to the North. The North is their sire, and no man can claim them."

She's said this before, again and again and again, and she turns her face away from him before he can lift his head. For in spite of his japes, the words land in his eyes every time, and that strange shadow of sadness...

_He cannot have for his own what belongs to the North._


	12. Jewels and Ashes

**Title: **Jewels and Ashes

**Rating: **M

**Summary: ** "I want her to see you," he'd told her. "Strong and beautiful and powerful, a true Queen, not the little girl she wanted to break." _But how do you want her to see you, Jaime? _Jaime and Sansa visit Cersei in the dungeons of King's Landing. Future-fic.

* * *

They steal through the corridors of the keep they once called home, the castle Sansa had hoped to escape forever- the past clings to the flagstones and pushes its shadows into every corner. The Red Keep bleeds, and not even dragon fire can solder the wounds.

Jaime's hand is tight around her wrist as he pulls her down the winding stairs that lead to the dungeons. Her stomach flutters with apprehension- _nothing down here but eyes and bones_- but he squeezes, and she follows.

"I want her to see," he'd said to Sansa earlier that evening, his left hand stroking into her smallclothes as his face burrowed into her neck. "I want her to see you, strong and beautiful and powerful, a true Queen, not the little girl she wanted to break."

_And how do you want her to see you, Jaime?_

She nodded her agreement in a fit of impulse- a part of her wished it all to be a jape, but the hard glint in his green eyes immediately tossed that hope away. But whenever she began to quail, Jaime would repeat the words like a prayer- _Queen in the North, a true queen, not a broken girl anymore...- _and she'd feel a pleasurable twinge between her legs.

When they arrive at their destination, Jaime releases her wrist and takes hold of her shoulders, the golden hand rigid against her flesh. He leads her to the bars of the cell, and she peers inside.

Cersei Lannister looks up at her visitors. Her pallid skin shines white as marble in the torchlight, the dark shadows in the hollows of her cheeks a sharp contrast. Her hair has grown back only a little- short, wispy curls of spun gold framing her narrow face. The loose shift she wears reveals wiry arms and legs; her long, elegant fingers are calloused, with broken nails. And yet her eyes shine more brilliantly than ever, the gaunt paleness of her face only emphasizing their beauty. There is still something majestic about her, something savage and wild and brazen- _she won't be broken, either._

The former Queen steps toward the bars. When she speaks, her voice holds the metallic rasp of disuse. "Brother."

She says nothing to Sansa, who nearly winces as Jaime grabs her shoulders tighter.

"You are in the presence of the Queen in the North, sister. You will kneel and pay your proper respects."

Her eyes barely flicker to Sansa before returning to Jaime. "So you've found a new Queen to serve, have you?"

Jaime lowers his left arm and wraps it around Sansa's waist, pulling her close. The golden hand brushes her hair over one shoulder, and he drops his head to her neck, kissing up and down the side. A chill prickles up Sansa's spine when he purrs, "I have."

Cersei remains in place, eyes glittering like gemstones, a queer smile spreading across her chapped lips. Jaime halts his caresses, obviously waiting for an answer, for an outburst- but she gives him nothing.

And then he's pulling at the laces of his breeches and pushing at Sansa's skirts, urging her forward until her forehead presses between the cold iron bars. "Grab hold," he hisses, and she wants to tell him no, to ask him what they're proving, to turn and run from this wraith with jewels in her eyes-

She cries out when he thrusts into her, her hands clenching on the bars. His weight pushes against her, his breath is hot in her ear- she releases a tiny whimper of pleasure in spite of herself, and her stomach twists when Cersei's smile sharpens.

Rage and shame and disgust and desire collide within her, and she tries once to wrest herself away from Jaime- but he's too strong, too furious, too determined.

"You've been forgotten, Cersei," he pants, seizing Sansa's face and capturing her mouth in a brutal kiss. "There are queens everywhere...true queens..." He licks a bead of sweat from Sansa's neck as his pace quickens- "You're nothing. Only air."

"Is that right?" Cersei moves forward until her face hovers just in front of Sansa- and Gods, she is more beautiful and terrible than ever, a caged lioness.

She closes her hands over Sansa's fists- her palms are cool and dry. And her face is so close, those cruel, shining eyes bright enough to blind-

"My Queen," she whispers, and Sansa bites her lip to keep from sobbing- this is all so unfair, she should feel vindicated, should feel victorious...but there's only emptiness here...

Cersei's thin wrist reaches through the bars and cups Jaime's cheek, drawing his face forward over Sansa's shoulder. Her lips meet his, just for a moment, and she smiles again when she murmurs, "My beautiful golden fool."

When Jaime comes inside her, Sansa lets her eyes wander to the far end of the prison, where one of the great dragon skulls casts its menacing shadow on the wall.

But she turns her attention to the ground below. And all she sees are ashes.


	13. Favor

**Title: **Favor

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **Sansa loves to spend time with Cersei. She relishes the special attention, the gentle mentorship. But most of all, she relishes the sight of herself in a crown.

(Sansa, Cersei and Jaime play at knights and queens.)

* * *

When she's been an especially good girl- her stitches perfectly straight, her dance steps flawlessly executed, her posture consistent- the Queen grants her a reward. These are the evenings that Sansa anticipates with a quiver in her belly, her favorite times by far. For she loves to spend time alone with Cersei, relishes the special attention, the gentle mentorship. But most of all, she relishes the sight of herself in a crown.

Cersei places the circlet of gold and ruby on Sansa's auburn curls, straightening the wisps of hair around the girl's face before turning her toward the looking glass. The light catches on the gems, and she shines- no longer Ned Stark's pretty little daughter, no longer the strange winter rose in the bower of Southern flowers, but a creature of majesty, the Crown Prince's betrothed- the woman who will be Queen.

The current Queen stands behind Sansa and combs her long fingers through the russet waves; Sansa is tall for her age, but Cersei's chin still easily clears the top of her head. And even in her dressing gown, her hair unbraided and tumbling about her shoulders in a waterfall of gold, she is a paragon, grand and proud and so painfully beautiful. And Sansa yearns to breathe her air and bask in her smile...she yearns to become.

Cersei lifts Sansa's arm and slips a soft piece of material into her sleeve; a silken scarf, elaborately embroidered. She tilts the crown until it sits firmly on Sansa's head before whispering, "Are you ready for your lesson, little princess?"

Sansa cannot help the enthralled grin that splits her face as she nods. Cersei brushes a soft kiss on her temple before placing her hands on her shoulders and spinning her to face the figure on the other side of the chamber.

Ser Jaime kneels in armor as golden as his hair, the pristine white cloak streaming down his back. His head is bowed, and Sansa is grateful for it- she'd be so embarrassed, were he to notice how her hands tremble. Cersei notices, of course- she notices everything. She places her own soft, cool hands on Sansa's and strokes so carefully, gentling away the shakes.

"When a knight asks for your favor in a joust, he'll extend his lance to you, and you'll tie it to the end," the Queen's voice purrs in her ear. "But when he asks for your favor before entering real combat, that's a different matter entirely."

She urges Sansa forward as she continues. "You'll slip it from your sleeve and offer it to him, and you'll let him take your hand."

Sansa plucks the scarf from her sleeve and extends her arm- she gasps and giggles when Ser Jaime's large hand covers hers, warm and firm and calloused. He accepts the favor, but holds tight to her hand and pulls her closer before pressing his lips to her knuckles.

"Your Grace," he speaks in a low rumble, and Sansa feels a peculiar twinge between her legs at the sound.

The Queen kisses her temple again, this time lingering a bit longer- Sansa would swear that she feels a tongue on her skin, but surely not...

"Now, what I'm about to tell you is extremely important." Sansa tries to turn her head to look at Cersei, but the proximity of the other woman's face to her own makes it impossible. And so she continues to stare at Ser Jaime, who has yet to release her hand.

"You must not appear too cold or distant. The exchange of favors often happens publicly, and nothing will displease the smallfolk more than a Queen who cannot summon up enough warmth when sending a knight into battle." She gives Sansa a little nudge on the small of her back. "Give your knight a kiss, my Queen."

Sansa can feel her heart pounding in her throat as she moves her hand to cup Ser Jaime's cheek. And Gods, he looks so like his sister- every bit as beautiful and fierce and gilded. Pleasure joins anxiety to course through her veins; she so loves pretty things, and she's never seen anything so pretty as these two lion twins here in the room with her.

"Go on," Cersei murmurs, and Sansa bends her knees, placing a soft, brief kiss on Ser Jaime's cheek. Although he wears no beard, a light prickling of facial hair tickles her lips, and her cheeks flush at once. She has never touched a man in so familiar a way (save her father and uncles, of course), and the newness of it overwhelms every sense.

Ser Jaime smiles at her when she withdraws, white teeth shining and green, green eyes nearly hypnotic. Her insides twist in a way that she doesn't understand, and she pulls herself upright- but then there are Cersei's hands on her hips, holding her firmly in place.

"Sansa," she begins, and although the girl cannot see the Queen's face, she can _hear _her smile- "This man is going off to battle, maybe going off to die. He asks for your favor, knowing full well that he may never be touched by another woman again. Is that truly all you have to give?"

She opens her mouth to protest, but only wordless sputters emerge. The chamber suddenly feels unbearably hot; a trickle of sweat drips down her neck. Cersei dips her head to collect the perspiration in her mouth...and the tingling in Sansa's most secret place becomes sharper and more urgent...

"Give him something beautiful to remember, sweetling."

Sansa leans over Ser Jaime again- he's still smiling, still glorious and just too _much_ of everything...but the elder Stark girl has always been an obedient child. Her palm returns to the man's cheek, and she moves closer, her lips barely touching his-

The next moments pass in an impossibly slow haze, like the memory of a dream. Ser Jaime stands, his mouth still connected to Sansa's, and he wraps his arms around her waist. She braces her hands on his breastplate and lets him kiss her again and again, his lips massaging hers, nothing hard or harsh, but just intensely, ecstatically strange.

Her arms wind around his neck and she pulls him closer, unable to get her fill of his mouth, whimpering when his tongue wheedles its way past her lips. _It's a song, it's Florian and Jonquil, beautiful beautiful beautiful..._

Cersei's mouth is on her neck again, sucking insistently, and she presses her back into the other woman's chest, her full, perfect chest. Sansa closes her eyes and sways with them, the twins moving together like the tide, in perfect synchronicity, their hands and arms and mouths filling her with their energy, bringing her closer to what they are, to what she aches to be.

When she breaks away from Jaime's mouth, greedily sucking air into her lungs, she finds that they've turned in place- they face the looking glass again. And as she stares at her reflection, at the ruby and gold crown, at the pairs of emerald eyes wanting her, inviting her, _claiming _her, she thinks that she's never felt more grown-up in all her life...nor more beautiful.


	14. Glass Cases and Gilded Cages

**Title: **Glass Cases and Gilded Cages

**Rating: **M+

**Summary: **When Tyrion refuses to consummate his marriage to Sansa, Tywin orders Jaime to do it. Warning for voyeurism, possible dub-con, and references to necrophilia.

* * *

The silence thins the air, chills it, each moment colder and crueler than the one before. He stands rooted to the ground; he does not even glance at the door anymore, for he knows that his father will notice (and he still quails at the glint of golden eyes, as though he were a child again- the Kingslayer subdued by nothing more than a look).

When Lord Tywin speaks at last, Jaime would swear that even the walls tremble at the sound. "It is a simple matter, Tyrion. One way or another, a Lannister man will be inside this girl tonight. Either you will do your duty and bed your wife, or you will watch as your brother does it for you."

A twinge of sickness plucks at his insides when Tyrion turns to look at him. His brother stands by the bed, naked and furious and grotesque, but there's a peculiar pride in the carriage of his shoulders that Jaime quite nearly envies. He deliberately avoids making eye contact with Tyrion; the blazing hatred that he's sure to encounter might be enough to strike him blind.

But the Imp does not stare at his brother for long. His mismatched eyes meet Lord Tywin's gaze boldly, his voice laden with steel when he says, "You may bluster at at me all you like, Father, but I'll not do it."

_Because of course this is a ruse, nothing but smoke. He doesn't mean it in earnest, he can't..._

But then, when Jaime considers everything and realizes that this would hardly be the most vicious act that Tywin Lannister has committed against his own blood, the cold dread sinks deeper and deeper...

He is not sure what possesses him next. The morbid solemnity of the situation rankles at his very soul, but surely he should know that this is no time for levity-

Nevertheless, he forces his face into something vaguely resembling a smile, his voice higher than usual and artificially jocular. "Well, Father, if all you need is a Lannister man, you might as well have brought Joffrey in here. I'm sure he'd be all too eager to help."

A squeak from the bed, soft but undeniable. Sansa has spoken not a word during this exchange; she's been sitting still, back against the headboard, staring ahead with eyes that scarcely seem to see. But she's returned to the room now, her hands clasped over her mouth, obviously trying to keep from shaking.

(The terror in her blue, blue eyes is naked and animal, and he nearly wishes that he had his dagger with him, that he might put her out of her suffering as he would a petrified, injured doe.)

His father replies with quiet menace. "Joffrey is a Baratheon."

Before Jaime can properly curse himself for his fool tongue, Tywin continues.

"But perhaps it is not such a bad notion. The kings of old would take the first rights before passing a bride to her husband. Perhaps we should allow Joffrey the same privilege."

Sansa winches her eyes tight and begins to murmur something incoherent. Tyrion's voice is quiet, but Jaime does not miss the tremble.

"You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?" Tywin turns and makes for the door; before he can exit, Tyrion shouts-

"Stop."

He hoists himself up onto the bed and places a hand on Sansa's knee; she does not look at him, but she flinches as though he'd pricked her with a pin.

"I'm sorry, my lady."

She opens her eyes and nods, allowing Tyrion to push her knees apart- again with those vacant eyes, as though her soul has abandoned her flesh and sought refuge somewhere else. Jaime watches, mute and horrified, as Tyrion positions himself between her legs, as his fingers softly stroke over her thigh-

But after a few moments, he pulls away from her, teeth gritted together and eyes downcast. Although he has not moved or spoken in some time, Lord Tywin's presence assails every sense, and Jaime's stomach drops when he realizes why Tyrion has withdrawn from his wife.

The Imp turns his head toward Sansa, unable to look at her fully when he says, "I'm so sorry."

Tyrion slides from the bed. Tywin stares at him with a cruel, twisted grimace on his lips, and Jaime follows his father's gaze to the source: Tyrion's cock, hanging flaccid between his legs.

"And here I took you for a man," Tywin hisses. "A sad mistake on my part."

He turns to his elder son. "Well, Jaime?"

The dry laugh pushes up his throat, sounding more like a cough when it escapes his mouth. "Surely you aren't serious."

"Have you ever known me for a joking man?"

Jaime closes his eyes. It's all too vile for words- when his father pushed him past this door, slamming it shut in Cersei's face when she tried to slip in after them, he never thought, could never have imagined...

"No." He barks the syllable as forcefully as he can- _I'm no child to be ordered about. I'm Lord Commander of the Kingsguard-_

"No?" Tywin steps closer to Jaime; they are of a height, Tywin's gold-flecked gaze perfectly level with his son's emerald one. "You would defy my orders?"

"I would." He keeps his eyes open and focused- _I've stared men in the face while sticking my sword into their chests and watching the life drain from them. I'll not look away like a coward now. _

His father pivots away from him with a slow shake of his head. "It's a pretty pair of eunuchs I've fathered." And to Jaime's surprise and horror, Tywin reaches for his own breeches and begins to untie the laces.

"What are you doing?"

"What neither of my sons will." Once the ties are unfastened, Tywin approaches the bed, all but shoving Tyrion out of the way. "Spread your legs, girl."

Jaime finds that he cannot look at the girl on the bed, and he instead locks eyes with Tyrion. And the seething despair- he hasn't seen anything like it since that day so many years ago, when the entire Lannister guard took turns rutting between the crofter's daughter's legs. It is a desperate, violent, pained helplessness, beneath which Jaime detects something even more devastating- a hint of a plea.

A rush of energy bursts into Jaime's chest, and he brings his golden hand down hard on his father's shoulder, pushing him to the side. "Don't."

But before Lord Tywin can call his guard in (_for he'd set his men on us, no question, and what chance would an unarmed, one-handed knight and a naked dwarf have against them?_), Jaime climbs on the bed and leans over Sansa, his left hand absently stroking her hair.

(Her face, impossibly still and flawless, frozen into a blankness he's only seen on cadavers.)

"Get out, Tyrion," Lord Tywin snaps, tossing a dressing gown at his younger son. The Imp throws the robe over his shoulders, but he does not budge.

"Get out, or I'll have my men drag you out."

Tyrion spares him only the briefest of glares, but it sends a chill to Jaime's spine, lingering long after the door slams shut.

"Is it too much to hope that you might follow my brother out?" Jaime asks through clenched teeth.

"I'll not move from this spot until you penetrate her."

It occurs to him to think of Cersei, but he realizes (to his absolute disgust) that there is no need. Perhaps it's the adrenaline, perhaps the glacial but undeniable beauty of the girl beneath him, perhaps the perverted fancy that he might be helping her, protecting her from a worse fate...

_Or perhaps the smallfolk have been wrong all these years. Perhaps I, not my brother, am the Monster of Casterly Rock._

He unlaces his breeches and shifts his hips between Sansa's thighs. His hard cock barely brushes against her, but she shudders; his finger gently probes her opening, and his heart grows still heavier when he finds her dry as a bone.

(It's almost comical, when he thinks of it later, that he would have expected anything different.)

"I'm waiting."

In a sudden fury, Jaime bares his teeth and all but snarls at his father- _what has this girl done, that you'd have her used so poorly? _But Lord Tywin remains thoroughly immovable and unimpressed.

Jaime returns his attention to Sansa. She stares up at the ceiling, and the candlelight catches in her eyes, eyes that do not blink. He thinks, absurdly, of a fairy story he'd heard years ago, a story of a princess long dead, entrapped in a glass case, and a kiss that restores her to life.

As soon as his lips land on Sansa's, he realizes his mistake- had he any sense of decency, he'd have turned her onto her hands and knees and spared her any false intimacies. It's cruel and cheap, what he's done, and he feels that he may become sick-

But there is no time, no place for that. His nausea only deepens when he presses the tip of his cock into her tight, unyielding cunt- _it's the only thing that will get him out, that will get his eyes off of her, off of me..._

"You haven't broken her maidenhead," Lord Tywin clips. "When I see blood, then I will leave."

Jaime looks at Sansa, but she refuses to shift her gaze from the ceiling. The next moment hangs suspended in time, crystallized like the most vivid image from a nightmare. He sees every muscle in her face contort when he thrusts into her, ice-blue eyes shutting tight, mouth splitting in a silent scream. He releases a groan- of_ what_, he hates to think- and when he pulls back, he sees a slick of crimson on his cock, the stain spreading to the bedsheet below.

"Thank you, Jaime."

And before Jaime can think of something defiant and furious to say, Lord Tywin pivots and strides to the door. When it slams behind him, the sound echoes harsh and final.

A hand clenches on his right wrist; it takes him a moment to notice, for the nerves are so weak there. He turns his head to look at the girl- he's still partially inside her, and the warm blood wets her channel in a way that's upsettingly pleasurable-

Her gaze has moved down to him, and he feels his mouth go dry. The distant, dreamlike haze has not vanished, not completely, but there's an urgency beneath, a vibrant desperation that Jaime does not understand, but that pierces his heart all the same.

She speaks, her voice high and quiet. "Is this real?"

And for a moment, he thinks of taking her face between his hands, looking her in the eye and telling her no, no, it's only a dream, it's a terrible dream, and when she wakes, it will be done and she can forget.

But to indulge her in that little fantasy, that little falsehood...that would be the cruelest act of all.

"Yes," he tells her, his whisper too quick and brisk to be apologetic.

Her face moves when he thrusts into her again, twitches and stretches and pinches. But the brief flash of life fades from her eyes as quickly as it came- she stares into nothingness, her eyes beautiful and empty.

The princess closes herself back into her glass case, and Jaime reminds himself to be grateful, for dead girls feel no pain.


	15. Masque

**Title: **Masque

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **"You must keep your wits about you," the Queen had instructed. "People often behave recklessly when they think no one can recognize them." Sansa gets into a spot of mischief at Joffrey's name-day masquerade.

* * *

An arm slides around her waist, warm and firm, and Sansa bites back the urge to giggle. She peers out through her mask and sees Joffrey on the other side of the room- disguise or no disguise, she'd recognize that arrogant posture, that petulant whine anywhere. No, it cannot be her betrothed who touches her in so familiar a way, who pulls her into an alcove and sprinkles light, tantalizing kisses just below her ear.

"You must try to keep your wits about you," the Queen had instructed her with a smile, long fingers reaching up to adjust the golden wig that Sansa wears over her auburn hair. "People often behave recklessly when they think no one can recognize them." Cersei had then pulled the laces of Sansa's embroidered-silk gown tight, pushing the girl's small breasts up into a convincing imitation of cleavage. Finally, she dipped the tip of her finger into a crystal vial and dabbed one of her own fragrances on the girl's pulse points before handing her an elaborate mask of gold and crimson. The Queen waited for Sansa to affix her mask before tying on one of her own; Sansa beamed when she looked at their reflections in the mirror- nearly of a height, with identical streaming curls, the beautiful Lion Queen and the soon-to-be Crown Princess, Lannister colors worn proudly over their faces.

Sansa's companion wears the same colors; he must be a Lannister cousin or something of the like. Half the population of Lannisport and Casterly Rock appears to be present, after all. Wine of Arbor Gold and Dornish Red swirls in her brain, and she lets herself lean into him, her fair head dropping back against his shoulder as he softly sucks the skin near her collarbone. She feels the light scratching of stubble- _he's a man, then, not a boy. _

In an unpleasant little crevice of her mind, Septa Mordane's voice echoes sharp and dissonant, chastising her for allowing a man, a stranger, to take such liberties. But as she looks around the Hall, she sees that every alcove is occupied by a necking couple. And a glance to the dais reveals Joffrey with a pair of slender, masked women on his lap, his face buried in a pillowy bosom while a pair of gloved hands strokes the hardness between his legs.

A similar hardness pokes at her own backside; Sansa recalls an early evening in Winterfell, when she'd heard strange noises in a normally-secluded hallway. She'd turned a corner and beheld Theon with his breeches down around his knees while one of Sansa's chamber maids wrapped her hand around him and pumped up and down. And Theon, his head thrown back, the look on his face...

Emboldened by the wine, Sansa reaches behind and softly cups the man through his breeches, applying only the smallest bit of pressure. But before she can properly register what she's doing, he grips her wrist and pulls her farther into the darkness, bracing her back against the wall and closing her hand more tightly around him. She rubs, a dull fascination pressing at her brain, and she opens her mouth for him, tasting the wine on his tongue when he kisses her (this part, at least, is familiar; Joffrey's kisses grow more insistent by the day).

He cups her breasts, stroking his thumbs into the tight space between them; when he bends his knees and replaces his fingers with his tongue, she whimpers, tossing her head with enough force to knock her wig askew.

He pushes up harder into her palm and drops his hand down to brush over her lower belly, slowly but surely moving down-

She flinches back from him then, shifting her hips away, and he gives her a savage grin, white teeth glittering in the low, low light.

"Don't play with me," he hisses before delivering a hard nip to her neck. "It's dark enough, there's no one to see."

Sansa thinks to turn and run, but the wine buzzes through her body, along with something else, something she remembers feeling when she watched Theon and the chamber maid, a queer tingling between her thighs...

He kisses her again, his hand large and calloused against her cheek. When he breaks away, he holds her fast, his thumb in her mouth, and stares hard into her eyes. The light is scarce, but she can still see the green of his, the vibrant, jewel-toned green...

And then a startled flicker, and he's pulling at the ties of her mask, deaf to her peeping objections. It falls away, and he sucks in a horrified breath- suddenly incensed by the unfairness of it all, she reaches for him and pushes his mask up over his brow-

Jaime Lannister looks at her as if he's seen a ghost, lips pressed thin and face blanched. A hard punch of dread assails her stomach; _Gods, he's Kingsguard, he'll have to tell Joffrey...I'll be paraded through the streets as a whore, and then they'll have my head..._

Her heart thumps in her ears, so loud that she's sure the sound will ricochet off of the stone walls. Perhaps if she begs, perhaps if she tries to barter- _nonsense. I don't have anything that Jaime Lannister would need or want. _

While she gapes at him in silent panic, Ser Jaime takes hold of her shoulders and speaks in a low growl:

"This never happened. Do you understand? I'll walk back into the hall. You'll take a few moments here to straighten yourself up, and then you'll return as well. This will _never_ be spoken of again."

A warm blanket of relief wraps itself around her, and she nods eagerly. His eyes are still so stricken, his face still parchment pale- it occurs to Sansa to wonder why the infamous Kingslayer would fear Joffrey's rage so powerfully, but she has no wish to question this unexpected good fortune.

As she reattaches her mask to her face, she watches Ser Jaime pause in the archway for a moment before streaking across the Hall in a flash of red and gold, determinedly striding to an area near the dais. There the Queen sits, her golden curls cascading over her shoulders, her red and gold mask perfectly in place...her mask, exactly like Sansa's...

She shakes the ridiculous thought from her head with a nervous laugh and reminds herself never to mix gold and red wines together again.


	16. Promises

**Title: **Promises

**Rating: **M

**Summary: **He promised that he would come back, and now he has. For Jaime Lannister keeps his vows now. None can accuse him of oathbreaking, not anymore.

(After hiding his fugitive goodsister away in a brothel for three moons, Jaime comes back to fetch Sansa and bring her North. Future-fic.)

* * *

When he brought Sansa here nigh three moons ago, he'd been pleasantly surprised by the cleanliness, the order, the overall _tastefulness_ of the place. Tyrion's preferences often run to the louche, and he didn't truly believe that he could leave her in some slatterns' lair- but the girls here seemed well-cared-for and tidy, and his brief conversation with the madam revealed her as a woman of practical intelligence. He'd dropped the coins into the woman's fleshy hand, bade an awkward, quiet farewell to Sansa (she would not look him in the eye, even when he took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up- _You're leaving me_, she'd whispered, _I should have known_. He'd been angry and indignant at that, and he left in haste before he could speak words he'd come to regret).

He promised to come back (he knows that the words sounded hollow, and that only made him angrier), and now he has (for Jaime Lannister fulfills his vows now- none can accuse him of oathbreaking, not anymore). He allows the madam to usher him into a small room, cheaply-furnished but pleasant enough, and he takes a seat at the edge of the bed as he waits.

The door opens just a sliver, and she slips into the room, a vial of lamp oil in her hand. She offers him little more than a courteous smile before crossing the chamber to tend to the dimming lantern. As she bends over the wick, back turned to him, he indulges himself in a thorough stare.

It's amazing, how dramatically girls this age can change in so short a time. Sansa's hips have widened, her legs have grown longer and tauter- he cranes his neck to catch a glimpse at another angle...and yes. Her breasts are fuller, too.

Of course, the last time he'd seen her, she'd been wearing a thick woolen gown, her shoulders bundled in multiple shawls. Perhaps she hasn't changed so drastically after all; perhaps he's just completely unused to seeing her in a thin, clingy gown that begins too late and ends too soon, with kohl smudged around her eyes and her hair (red again, not brown anymore) loose and tousled.

His mouth suddenly feels parched, and he glances about in the hopes of finding a pitcher of water. By some happy coincidence, she chooses this moment to say, "There's wine, if you like."

"I'd like that very much," he replies with a crooked smile. He watches as she fills two goblets with a pale-red liquid.

"Is it any good?"

"It's dreadful," she says as she hands him the glass. "But I've grown used to it."

She smiles back at him before taking a drink: a soft, bemused smile. "You came back for me after all."

At once, his defenses rise up and take control of his body. Shoulders tighten, back straightens, jaw clenches. He knows that there's flint in his eyes when he looks her square in the face.

"Always the tone of surprise, eh, my lady?"

"I didn't mean it like that-"

"Leave it."

Her lips plump in what briefly appears to be a pout, but she quickly collects herself. The poise that had so astonished him in the Vale, that melted away the moment Petyr Baelish's corpse plummeted from the Moon Door, has entirely returned, and he knows not whether to be grateful or disappointed.

"You traveled here without companions?" she asks.

He nods before taking a sip of the wine, and she laughs at his puckered wince.

"Where are Brienne and Pod and Ser Hyle?"

Jaime hesitates, unsure how to explain their adventures with the Brotherhood Without Banners, their alliance with Lady Stoneheart...and, especially, the Lady herself.

"You wouldn't believe it if I told you." Her brows lift with curiosity, but Jaime shakes his head. "Tomorrow. I'll explain it all then- it's a long tale, and the hour grows late."

She clearly does not care for this answer- he can see her tongue working in her cheek- but she eventually nods.

"Have you been treated well here?"

"Well enough," Sansa replies. She peers into his glass and laughs lightly as she refills it. "They keep me busy- I help the madam with the money. I've a good head for numbers."

"I see. And is this the usual attire for coin apprentices these days?" In a flash of impulse, he reaches out his left hand and plucks at the hem of her skirt, which barely covers her thighs. His fingertips brush the soft skin of her leg, and he curses the clumsiness of his left hand for the thousandth time.

"_This_"- she steps back from him until he is forced to release her dress- "is for my own protection, or so the madam says. The other girls wouldn't like the idea of a young woman living in the house without..." Her words trail away, and her face glows bright pink (it's a lapse in the poise, and he's glad for it).

"But you don't-"

"Of _course_ not. Don't be ridiculous. I only dress the part." She lifts a hand and brushes it over her hair. "They dyed my hair back for me. Red is very popular around here."

"Very pretty," Jaime offers. When she smiles, he proceeds- "Then they all think that I-"

"-that you bought me for the night, yes." Her voice is flippant, but her blush deepens as she speaks.

Sansa turns away from him and walks to the other side of the room, gesturing over her shoulder to the wall behind the bed. "The walls are thin. You'll hear...quite a bit. It takes some getting used to."

He's already noticed the sounds echoing from the adjacent chamber- moans and sighs and whimpers, most of which sound vastly exaggerated. A particularly loud groan punctuates the end of Sansa's sentence, and both of them stare at the wall for a moment. Jaime feels a twist of embarrassment when he realizes that Sansa is not the only one blushing.

She opens a cupboard and retrieves a blanket and pillow, which she sets down on the divan. "We'll have to share this chamber tonight, to keep up appearances. I'll take the divan, you'll have the bed."

"No, my lady, I'd sooner take the divan-"

"Jaime. You've been riding for days; when's the last time you slept in a proper bed? Please, I insist."

When he does not argue the point, she continues brightly,

"I shall have to adjust to sleeping in a bedroll again. Shall I have my own?"

"Aye, I've brought a new one along for you. We shan't have to share such close quarters ever again."

They both laugh at the memory; her bedroll had been badly damaged in a sudden rainstorm, and Jaime had offered her space in his-_ she's a slight little thing, there's more than enough room for two_. It had been strange and not a little unnerving to fall asleep with a woman's chest pressed against his, to wake up entangled in soft limbs, his face couched in thick, wild hair. They'd drained the last of the beer and the piss-poor excuse for wine that night- he remembers being unable to distinguish the haze of drunkenness from the haze of desire when he woke from a shallow sleep to find himself hard as steel, pressed flush against her belly.

"You kissed me that night."

Her words jolt him from his reverie, and he scrambles to remember. _Did I? _His mind sifts through image after image- _oh Gods, that's right_..

It had been a messy kiss; brutal almost, all scraping teeth and the rubbing of a rough beard against soft cheeks. The thought of it sickens him now- _she must have been horrified. _

He tries to laugh, but the sound that emerges is too hoarse and dry to pass. "I..I suppose I should ask your pardon for that, my lady. I'd had more than my share of drink...I never intended to hurt or embarrass you."

"You did neither. I don't remember it that way at all."

The lamplight catches in her eyes when she looks up at him, glittering in the blue along with something peculiar and indiscernible. But the moment passes, and she's all business again, neatly making up a bed for herself on the divan and gesturing to a thin screen at the far end of the room.

"There's a basin back there, if you'd like to clean up."

When he disappears behind the screen, stripping his clothing and rubbing the damp sponge over his dirt-smudged skin, he notices her silhouette as she flits about the room. Her hips move differently now; there's an insouciance to their sway, and when she bends over to trim the lamp wick again, his eyes linger on the firm roundness of her backside.

The moaning continues behind the wall, and the combination of the warm water on his skin, the phantom sounds of ecstasy, and the beautiful woman on the other side of the screen sends a rush of blood to his cock.

(He hasn't touched a woman in months- he's barely even tried to pleasure himself- because of vows, he keeps his vows now...and because of Cersei, but he's too tired right now to fume over his sister the whore...)

His stomach tightens when her shadow turns and approaches the screen, but she only flips a pair of sateen trousers over the partition before turning away again. "I've already sent your clothing off to be washed," she says. "I haven't any tunics, but it tends to get stuffy in here anyway- you'll be warm enough, I think."

Once he dries himself, he slips the garment on and scowls- he's half-hard already, and the shiny, cheap fabric will do absolutely nothing to conceal him.

Jaime's best efforts to subdue his arousal do not work nearly as quickly as he needs, and he's been back here for too long already. There's nothing for it but to step back into the chamber and try to pretend that he doesn't know why Sansa politely averts her eyes.

When he attempts to settle down onto the mattress, his muscles tense all at once: an uncomfortable side-effect of long rides that has only worsened with age. He winces sharply and utters a little grunt, eyes shut tight.

He does not hear her approach; those tiny feet are still as deathly-quiet as ever. His breath catches in surprise when her hands rest on his shoulders, digging into the tight cords and tendons with a pleasant firmness.

"You don't need to do this, my lady," he murmurs, but he soon compromises his words with a long, low sigh of pleasure as she loosens a particularly tense cluster of nerves.

"It's as much for my benefit as it is for yours," she replies, and when he turns his head to look at her with startled green eyes, she laughs. "It won't do to set off on the road, only to stop after a few hours because you're too sore to ride."

Another unfortunate choice of words, only made worse by the sudden high-pitched squeal from behind the wall. But Sansa is undaunted; she kneads and rubs expertly, with a precision that can only come from practice.

"Did you learn how to do this from the other girls?"

She nods; he knows it from the way her hair sweeps back and forth over his shoulder. "I'm kept quite separate here- I haven't seen much, not really. But I thought that this might come in useful one day, so I paid attention." Her fingertips sink beneath his shoulderblade when she says with a smile, "Of course, you aren't getting the full experience. I haven't put the oils on you."

His cock twitches at that, and Sansa clearly doesn't miss it, for she continues thusly, "It isn't as interesting as it sounds. The oils are very heavily fragranced- they stink to the heavens, to be honest." She climbs around his back and slides over the pillows until she's against the headboard, urging him to move back with her. "I can reach you better like this." Her voice sounds lower now, and Jaime settles between her legs, her tiny bare feet on either side of his knees. While he was bathing, she'd removed her flimsy excuse for a dress; she wears only a sheer shift now. The kohl no longer rims her eyes, and she is decidedly unperfumed, and yet a sweet scent still clings to her, something he remembers from that evening in the bedroll- juniper and a hint of citrus and something...something else that he cannot define, but that belongs wholly to Sansa.

Jaime allows his eyes to flutter shut again, forcing himself to focus on his loosening muscles rather than on the softness of the girl's body against his back. But then her hands halt their ministrations and a pair of slim arms encircles his bare shoulders, holding him in a gentle embrace. Her lips barely graze the shell of his ear when she whispers:

"Please don't be cross, but I want to thank you. Thank you for coming back."

And indeed, his first instinct is to say something peevish, or to make an unkind, off-color jape. But he's so relaxed now, and her every syllable is pregnant with sincerity.

He gives her a crooked half-smile and a deep nod of acknowledgement. But before he can say anything, she takes his chin in her small hand and turns his face toward her. Her mouth covers his with surprising aggression, teeth scraping at his lower lip, tongue working its way in. Jaime twists his upper body until he can gather her into his arms; his golden hand catches in her hair and pulls, but her whimper of reaction speaks not of pain. She grips his short locks, shifting until she nearly sits in his lap, kissing and kissing like a woman starved, tasting of sour wine and citrus and juniper and _Sansa._

She smiles when she breaks away from him, the skin near her mouth reddened from the rub of his beard against her.

"That night, when you kissed me in the bedroll," she begins, trailing her fingers over

his jaw, "_that_ is how I remember it."

There's a buzzing at the back of his brain, a whirring sound of caution- _vows, vows_- but it's only kissing, only an acceptance of her thanks..._I've no plans to marry her or get a child on her..this isn't oathbreaking, not really_. He cuts off her next inhale, pressing his lips to hers and lowering her down onto the flat pillows, groaning when her thighs tighten around him.

They tangle up together for hours, exchanging breathless kisses, touching and tasting and laughing into each other's mouths when a particularly dramatic series of sounds echoes from the room next door.

As he dips his tongue beneath the neckline of Sansa's shift, Jaime thinks of the separate bedroll that he acquired for her, and he wonders how best to destroy it before he and Sansa stop to make camp.


	17. Bright mane forever

**Title: **Bright mane forever/shall shine like the gold

**Rating: **M

**Summary: **She haunts them both, and they no longer try to keep her shade away. Jaime/(Cersei)/Sansa.

* * *

The glint of steel, and he tenses. It's all instinct; Jaime Lannister is a soldier, a warrior, and his body will never forget how to react to the sight of a blade. But the moment passes; soft, cool fingertips stroke the sides of his neck, and he breathes.

"I've worn this beard for some time now...I'm quite used to it," he mumbles as Sansa spreads a bit of lather over the hair on his chin. "I'd go so far as to say that I've grown attached...perhaps it's best to leave it."

She sets the blade down and takes his face between her hands, ignoring the thick soap that sluices through her fingers.

"Please let me, Jaime," Sansa implores in that tone, that soft, airy, yearning tone that she knows he cannot refuse.

Dry lips brush his temple, and her thumbs rub circles over his cheeks. All the while, she whispers like a mild but insistent breeze, "Please. Please.:"

He sighs and nods. Her sweet face spreads into a jubilant smile when she takes the blade back in her hand, and Jaime forces himself not to consider why it troubles him so.

She works quickly and deftly, concluding her efforts with a deep, satisfied sigh. Jaime closes his eyes to keep from looking at hers, but he responds when she presses her lips to his newly-shaven skin, kissing a circle around his mouth before settling there.

"You're so beautiful," she murmurs, and he opens his eyes just a sliver- the hunger building behind her crystal-blue irises overwhelms him, and he nips at her lower lip before dragging his tongue over hers and encircling her waist with a strong, taut arm.

Her hands grasp for purchase in his hair; he hasn't taken a knife to it in weeks, and it curls about his face and neck, reaching nearly to his shoulders.

"Perhaps you could take the blade to this as well," he smirks into her mouth as he gives his locks a toss. "Getting difficult to fit it under my helmet..."

But she pulls harder (as he knew she would), eyes of burning ice flashing and flickering.

"No." She frees herself from his arm but keeps her lips on his face, kissing up his jawline as she moves behind to comb her hands through his thick golden hair, catching it between her fingers.

"I like it long like this. You won't cut it, will you?"

A beat of silence, which she fills by sweeping the longer bits of hair from the back of his neck and trailing hot kisses along the nape. "Please, Jaime. Please."

He nods, slower than before, and a heavy knot twists his stomach.

Sansa walks back around his chair and gestures to him to rise. He wears no tunic, and her nimble fingers make quick work of his breeches. When he stands before her in nothing but his smallclothes, he reaches his left hand to touch her, but she steps away. "Not yet."

She strips the laces of her dress and shimmies out of her shift. His cock pulses at the sight of her nearly-naked, the long white lines of her body tinted gold by the candlelight- but she just shakes her head, smiling softly, eyes full to bursting (he knows what fills them, and it vexes him, that it should hurt at all).

"Not yet."

Quiet steps carry her across the chamber, where she retrieves a pair of finely-made robes: crimson silk, with gold embroidery. He's seen their like before, and the knot tightens within him when he thinks of the way the fabric would cling to full breasts and ample hips, the gold of the stitching a perfect match to the gold of long, lush curls...

Sansa slips the smaller robe over her shoulders and cinches it at the waist before handing him its fellow. She lifts her brow, and he knows that this is the moment; if he is going to refuse, going to protest, it will have to be now.

He puts on the robe.

When he reclines on the bed, he catches a strong hint of fragrance on the linens- lemons and rosewater, and he nearly chokes. But then Sansa crawls into his arms, her soft kisses warm and pleasurable on the bare skin of his face.

He tries at first to shift her toward the hardness between his legs, but she resists, and he remembers. Instead, he lets her guide his left hand down to her wetness, holding fast to his wrist when he tries to apply more pressure.

"Soft," she whispers as she sucks his earlobe, her hand stroking his hair, the scent of lemon and rosewater clinging to them both.

Jaime knows what she wants, and he knows how to give it. His body was made to respond to his sister's; he can replicate her every touch, her every kiss, her every sound. And in spite of the hurt (it lingers like a dull muscle ache, and he's determined to ignore it until it disappears), he finds a perverse thrill in discovering how Cersei would kiss Sansa's neck, how Cersei would suckle her breasts, how Cersei would lick between her legs.

He drives ( _they_ drive ) Sansa nearly to her peak, and then he pulls his head out from between her legs and plunges his fingers back in, starting with Jaime's rhythm, but quickly adjusting.

"Say my name." He kisses her before she answers- lips pursed to imitate a smaller mouth.

She comes apart, Cersei's name on her lips, her hands knotted in his long hair, her mouth brushing across smooth cheeks.

And then she allows him to thrust into her, the sensation burning and blinding and urgent, lemon and rosewater in his nostrils, scarlet silk on his back.

His release comes quickly, and it's Cersei's name that he pants against Sansa's lips. But there's nothing but understanding in her eyes when she pushes his hair back behind his ear and moves to let him share her pillow.


	18. Bargains

**Title:** Bargains

**Rating: **M

**Summary: **The Queen in the North sends her Lord Commander to handle trade negotiations with Highgarden, and Jaime finds his patience and wherewithal sorely tested by Willas Tyrell and his terms.

* * *

Jaime wonders, sometimes, whether she sends him here as a test. She's forever going on about how impulsive he is, how impetuous and impertinent; perhaps she means to force him into an even temper by having him treat with these cretins and simpletons under her name. After his brief imprisonment at Highgarden several moons past (_all a ridiculous misunderstanding; they've no sense of humor, these fools in the Reach_ ), Jaime has worked to curb his tongue, to hold down his fire, to conduct himself with the dignity expected of the Queen in the North's Lord Commander.

The effort is exhausting, and he realizes too late that he's reached the end of his paltry store of patience.

"Tyrell," he snarls at the man sitting opposite him, his jaw clenched and his eyes shut, "what is it that you want?"

When he opens his eyes again, he finds Willas Tyrell watching him with that impossibly serene expression, the one that infuriates Jaime more than any insult or threat ever could. It had been his brother Garlan who'd sent Jaime to the dungeons after that other visit; Willas had shaken his head and declared it all unnecessary- _but he did nothing to stop it, either._

"Please understand, I have no wish to be difficult," Willas begins, thoroughly unfazed by the bristling lion on the other side of the table. _Sansa would be delighted- perhaps he should be her Lord Commander._ Jaime searches the other man's face for some sign of the wicked, wild spark that used to illuminate the sweet brown eyes of his brother and sister- but he finds nothing but calm.

This only stokes the peevish anger within him, and he feels his left hand clench into a fist.

He hardly trusts himself to speak, but there's really no choice: "Wool is what we have to trade. Wool, wool, and more wool. If you don't _want_ wool, then I'm not sure that there's any further point to this negotiation...unless there's something else. Is there something else we can do for you, Lord Tyrell?"

"Please sit, Ser Jaime," Willas says- Jaime does not even realize that he's risen from his seat before the Lord of Highgarden brings it to his attention. He drops unceremoniously down into his chair while the other man speaks, "There is no need to cut the negotiation short, I don't think."

"Then what-" His cheeks burn red, and he takes a deep inhale through his nose. "Is it coin you want?" _It's money, it's always money with these people._ Jaime is prepared to make Willas Tyrell an offer of coin- an empty offer, to be sure, as he's already promised gold to every lord from here to the Wall. He cannot hope to make good on even half of these deals; he can only claim half the assets of Casterly Rock, and in spite of the Lannister family's reputation for obscene, unspeakable wealth, there is a definite bottom to the coffer, and he can see it plainly now.

But Willas only replies with a good-natured laugh. "I hope you'll forgive me for saying so, but Casterly Rock's wealth isn't quite what it once was. My coin store far surpasses yours now...I've no need for gold."

_Then **what** do you **want**, you tedious cripple?_

"In that case, I'm afraid I cannot begin to guess what we can offer you, my lord." Jaime stretches his lips into a flat line; Tywin Lannister wore this expression often, its unnerving neutrality the closest that Jaime's father ever came to smiling. "But the journey here was long, and I'm feeling rather fatigued. I'm really in no condition to play at riddles."

Willas laughs again; Jaime listens carefully, preparing to pounce on any hint of mockery or derision. But there's nothing but friendly pleasantness in the sound. "You may tell your lady that she'll have all of the fruit and grain she needs for the rest of the year. All I ask in return is that she take a few moments to read this letter and to consider its contents."

He slides the parchment across the table to Jaime, neatly-folded and pressed shut with a rose-shaped seal.

"And what might those contents be?" Jaime inquires. When Willas hesitates, the Lord Commander of the North leans forward, his voice quiet and nearly menacing.

"All of her correspondence goes through me first. So either you tell me what's in this letter, or I rip this pretty seal open and find out for myself."

Willas lifts his eyebrows, but his tone remains unperturbed. "It is a request for Queen Sansa to reconsider my suit. I'd like her to allow me to court her and then, if it pleases Her Grace, to accept my proposal of marriage."

Jaime's throat tightens, and his attempt at laughter sounds more like the barking of one of those damnable dogs at Willas' feet. "If you think for a moment that Queen Sansa will leave the North for Highgarden-"

"I don't think that at all. If she were to accept, I would leave Highgarden to my brother Garlan and would go North to rule at her side as her consort."

"Not as her King?" Green eyes latch onto brown, and an undeniable current of challenge passes between the two men.

"I doubt that she would have it so, and I would never ask it of her." There's something nearly sheepish about the way Willas shifts in his chair and tilts his head; it's the first ripple Jaime has seen in the man's remarkable placidness.

"It would be a good match, beneficial for both sides. We've long been allies, but a marriage would seal Highgarden to the North, and the people above the Neck will never want for freshly-grown food."

"Indeed, the bounty of Highgarden would be very welcome in our barren wasteland," Jaime replies wryly, a furrow appearing in his brow. "But what exactly does the North have that you would want?"

"Well, there's land, for a start. Queen Sansa rules a vast kingdom, and her ties to the Vale are very strong..." Willas' words trail away, and a faint but unmistakable blush appears on his cheeks. "She's an admirable woman. Strong and kind and fair-minded...I believe that we would suit each other well."

Jaime's stomach twists at that- if Willas had said something lascivious, if he'd commented on her fine figure or even on her fair face, then the Lord Commander would be able to summon up his contempt. But when he speaks so sincerely..._ and it's true, they would suit very well_ ...he can do nothing but grit his teeth and clench his hand tightly around the parchment.

"You could have done away with the trade negotiations and simply sent a raven...I dare say it would have been less expensive."

"I want her to know that I mean this seriously." Willas' gaze shifts away from Jaime, landing somewhere near the ground. "I'd make her a good husband, and I would never seek to take away the power that she has so rightly earned."

Jaime interrupts him with a hoarse cough before shoving the parchment into the folds of his cloak. "Very well, then. If there's nothing else-"

He rises and sharply turns toward the door, closing his left hand over the handle as WIllas says, "Wait...there is something else, Ser Jaime."

Heaving a great sigh, Jaime releases the door handle and steps back into the room.

Willas' tone is quiet and cautious as he continues, "I...I had a raven from my sister at the last moon."

A sudden pressure squeezes at Jaime's temples, but he forces himself to keep his eyes open. "Oh?"

"She says that Lord Tommen is adjusting to Braavos very well. He's learning the Braavosi water dance, and he grows taller and stronger by the-"

'Yes, well. Good- it pleases me to hear it," Jaime sputters as he backs toward the door, left hand fumbling for the handle. A curse escapes his lips when he trips over one of the glossy-haired puppies that litter the floor. He feels a brutal urge to kick the offending creature, but he only stretches his face into a sneer and says, "You really ought to keep these mongrels outside. I think I saw this one lift its leg on your pretty rug over there."

And with that, he sweeps from the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

The next day, Jaime and his men ride from Highgarden in great haste. The Lord Commander holds his retinue to a punishingly-quick speed; he'd sent a raven to Winterfell after their departure, predicting a two-moon journey, but they arrive back at the Northern stronghold nearly a week earlier than that.

He insists on the furious clip in an effort to distract him from what he'd learned at Highgarden. The information on Tommen smarted sharper than it should- he is grateful that the Dragon Queen allowed the one-time King and his wife an exile to the Free Cities in place of an execution, but he has no way to contact the boy. And while Margaery has sent a letter or two to Sansa, signed at the bottom in both her own elegant scroll and Tommen's scrawling hand, nothing has ever arrived for Jaime. He reminds himself that he has no right to be upset, that there is no reason for the boy to want to be in touch with his uncle-father, the man who slew his mother-

If he rides quickly enough, perhaps the heaviness will fall away, or at least wear down enough to be bearable. The weight of his sins, his follies, his poor decisions crushes at his bones- _these are troubles that a good man, an honorable man like Willas Tyrell will never know._

They ride through the gates of Winterfell in the dead of night. Much to the chagrin of Sansa's sleepy, confused steward, Jaime marches into the east tower and toward Sansa's chamber, deaf and blind to any who would object.

His golden hand thwaps forcefully at her door- once, twice, three times. At last, she opens it- under other circumstances, he would chide her for her carelessness, opening her bedroom door in the middle of the night without first asking who stands behind it.

But there she is, framed in moonlight, barefoot and clothed in nothing but a simple shift. Her hair falls loose and tousled around her shoulders, her face is unpainted; she's just a girl, a sleepy girl rubbing the crust of sleep from her eyes, a radiant girl with a softly-blooming body, sweet and clean and fresh-

_She deserves to be cherished, and she'll have that from Willas Tyrell..._

He cuts off his own train of thought by roughly wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her to him. She lightly brushes her fingers over the lapels of his surcoat. "You...you've arrived much earlier than I thought..."

"Would you have preferred me to stay away for longer, Your Grace?" he asks with a glint in his green eyes.

Full pink lips spread into a lazy smile as she reaches up to coil her arms around his neck. "No, ser, I would not."

Jaime backs her into her chamber before shutting the door firmly behind him. He's rough with her, rougher than usual- _with Willas, it would be nothing but soft touches and gentle kisses-_

His hand presses hard into her soft skin, his mouth is hungry and demanding; he reaches down to scoop her up and carry her to the bed, sucking at her neck until she squeaks in protest; she doesn't like to find marks on herself in the morning. But he wants to see, needs to see the evidence of his touches, to lay whatever petty claim to her that he can.

They tumble onto the bed in a tangle of limbs; she helps him out of his surcoat and tunic, but balks when he tries to remove her shift (like always). And so he contents himself with kissing her through the thin silk, mouthing her nipples until they harden into peaks, nipping at the soft swell of bosom that peeks out the neckline.

He cups her through her smallclothes, and her sweet little moans- "Jaime...yes, Jaime"- she likes to say his name, and Gods, how he likes to hear it- he knows not whether it is true, but in these moments, he lets himself believe that he is the only one, that his is the only name she says like this.

Her tiny hand sneaks its way past the laces of his breeches, and she moves with careful, practiced strokes._ Will she pretend for Willas, pretend to be a guileless maid rather than a skilled one?_

She touches him, he touches her- they approach their peaks together, and Jaime feels the burning (as he always does at this point), the desperate desire to be inside her. But no, she says- even after two husbands and any number of potential claimants, she's kept herself intact, and she means to remain so until the time is right.

_And the time will never be right for you._

Her climax comes first, all quick breaths and soft mewls, her little nails digging into his shoulder as her mouth latches to the side of his neck. He pushes himself into her hand, harder and faster, kissing her hard enough to bruise her lips before he releases his seed into her palm.

As they lie together afterwards, Sansa rests her head on his chest, turning her face every now and then to press a kiss to his sweat-dampened skin. If she's noticed his agitation, she makes no mention of it- her voice is light and sated when she asks, "How was your visit with Lord Tyrell?"

"He's agreed to give you what you ask,"Jaime answers before cupping her chin and drawing her up to his mouth. Perhaps if he can kiss her quiet, kiss her until she can no longer breathe, she'll forget to ask, she'll never have to know-

"And what does he want in return?"

Jaime's lips cover hers, his tongue slipping into her mouth, his hand roaming her body and teasing at her most sensitive spots.

But she keeps her eyes open and alert. When he is finally forced to break away from her to take a breath, she repeats the question.

"Tomorrow" is his husky reply before he dips his head to kiss the hollow of her throat. "The hour is late, you must be tired-"

"I'm quite awake now," she says with a smile, but Jaime detects a hardness in her sweet blue eyes. "What does he want?"

He scrambles for a lie, for a deflection, for anything at all. But she just fixes him with that steady stare, waiting..."You're honest- sometimes compulsively so," she'd told him in the early days, when he asked why she was willing to count a Lannister among her advisors. And her trust is what he has to cleave to now, after he's failed so many before her-_ will you ever think of me when you wield your sword, Tommen?_ And if he fears that he'll lose her to this marriage, he reminds himself, must always remind himself- _you cannot lose what was never really yours._

Jaime stands from the bed and crosses to the chair in the corner where he carelessly tossed his cloak. And after a single moment of hesitation (eyes closed, breaths short), he reaches into the folds and pulls out the crumpled parchment, his forefinger smoothing over the red rose seal.


End file.
